


Unrepentant, Unforgiven

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon - Non-canonical to good purpose, Characters - Friendship, Characters - New interpretation, Characters - OOC to good purpose, Characters - Unusual relationship(s), Characters - Well-handled romance/eroticism, Drama, Eowyn Behaving Badly., Plot - Bittersweet, Plot - Can't stop reading, Plot - Disturbing/frightening/unsettling, Plot - I reread often, Subjects - Culture(s), War of the Ring, Writing - Engaging style, angsty, non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2004-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-24 18:19:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3778978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eowyn does not want to die a virgin in the Ring War. She decides to try her hand at brewing a love potion . . . with disastrous results. WARNINGS: non-con, angsty, Eowyn Behaving Badly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

The sun was slanting through the piling clouds across the Golden Hall of Meduseld when the Three Hunters, accompanied by the White Rider, wound through the maze-like warren of living quarters towards the Great Hall. Already the sounds and smells of food being served wafted up the passageway towards them, and Gimli sniffed the air ecstatically.

“Real food at last!” he said, rubbing his calloused hands together in anticipation. “Don’t take this the wrong way, my friend, but lembas gets a little tiring, especially when it’s so often repeated.”

Aragorn laughed, and Legolas responded with a smile. “I should be offended, I suppose,” he admitted, “but it’s true; meat and bread and wine will taste very good tonight.” He stretched lightly, holding his arms over his head and running his hands through his long pale hair. “To tell the truth, though, it was a greater relief to bathe; my body has not felt water on it since we left the Anduin a week ago.”

“You spend too much time bathing,” scoffed Gimli. “What do you care how you smell? You’ve no elf-maids to impress this far south.”

“It’s not so much the smell as the feel,” explained Legolas, shifting his shoulders under his clean tunic. “The grit and the sweat build up in the corners and make moving a chore, instead of the joy it should be.”

Gimli smiled up at his friend. “Well, I suppose were I graceful as you, I would care more about the joy in my movements, but truth be known Dwarves are little concerned with such things. What about you, Aragorn? Is it the smell or the feel?”

“Smell, definitely,” Legolas answered for him, and laughed at Aragorn’s mock-indignant glare.

“I hate to admit it, but Legolas is right,” said Aragorn good-naturedly. “I never detected much of a smell growing up amongst Elves; I suppose you really don’t stink much, Legolas, even when you’re dirty. That’s why I notice it so much in myself.”

“So long as your hands and face are clean, what does it matter?” asked Gandalf. “By the Valar, you three chatter as much as Hobbits! Leave this discussion for the bedrooms, where it belongs.” He stopped himself abruptly, wishing he hadn’t spoken, for at that moment Éowyn, dressed in white and girt with silver, appeared at the passageway entrance before them. She smiled, so he assumed she hadn’t heard, or at least hadn’t put the wrong interpretation on what she’d overheard; Gandalf had no desire to get on Théoden’s wrong side. There was far too much at stake.

“Hail, Grey Pilgrim!” she said in her light, slightly husky voice; her dark eyes roved over the four companions, lingering perhaps a little longer upon Aragorn, before speaking. “The meal is prepared; the hatches are open, and we await only our guests before falling to. Please come with me; you shall sit at the high table on the dais tonight.”

Obediently they followed, though Gimli noticed with amusement Aragorn was careful to let Legolas follow behind Éowyn first; obviously his friend had noticed her special attention to him and didn’t desire any further conversation or contact than absolutely necessary. It was really unfair, thought Gimli; men had it so easy, with so many females to choose from. Dwarf females weren’t exactly thick upon the ground in any part of Middle Earth, and indeed it had been many long years since Gimli had laid eyes upon a woman of his own kind. He supposed, if one were willing, he could prevail upon a daughter of men in a pinch, though the height issue would be a little difficult to overcome; Elves had it easier, being both tall and fair of face; either race would do for them, though Gimli knew Legolas had no especial interest in the daughters of men, being well satisfied with his own kind.

Indeed, though, had Legolas a mind, Gimli could see a number of women, both young and old, paying him enough attention that his nights would have been filled completely with carnal release; true to his nature, however, Legolas sat scarcely noticing the looks he attracted. And as the dinner progressed, Gimli amused himself with watching the women watch his two companions; while Gandalf, Éomer and Théoden discussed the fortifications of Helm’s Deep and the emptying of Edoras, Legolas and Aragorn were fielding questions of their own from various ladies and maids who hovered around the High Table, ostensibly greeting the guests. Aragorn, tall and rugged and kingly, had also made a great impression upon Éowyn, and that seemed at least partially sufficient to keep the predators at bay; Legolas, however, seemed almost to glimmer compared to the men surrounding him, and the young maidens all appeared to admire him greatly. The Elf conversed calmly and politely with them all, attending them with interest and, Gimli could see, causing many a heart to flutter. Even Éowyn, though certainly attracted to Aragorn, was casting furtive looks at Legolas during the meal, and upon her face was a tense and expectant expression.

After the meats were removed and the subtleties brought out, Gimli shooed the seraglio away from his friend, saying he had private matters to discuss with the Elf; when at last they were seated side by side, Legolas took a deep breath and smiled gratefully at the Dwarf. “Thank you, my friend!” he said. “I am sure they do not mean me ill, but their constant simpering was starting to get on my nerves.”

“You looked a bit frazzled,” agreed Gandalf on Legolas’ other side, smiling. “But really, Legolas, if you don’t want such attention from every female you pass, you’ll have to try your hand at being a little less attractive.”

“It’s not every female I object to,” protested Legolas, one hand going automatically to his carefully braided hair. “It’s only the mortal ones.”

At Gandalf’s raised eyebrow, Gimli chuckled and said, “You ought to have seen him in Lórien, Gandalf; he was gone every night. I am sure he had a different – “

“Shush!” hissed Legolas, looking warily past Gimli to Éowyn, who appeared to have heard this last comment. He colored slightly, the tips of his pointed ears turning pink. Lowering his voice he said, “You needn’t advertise my habits here! Men have different standards than we Elves do. I wouldn’t want them thinking ill of us.”

“True,” said Gandalf, unable to hide his smile. “Don’t embarrass Legolas in front of all these ladies, Gimli; what he does in private should be kept in private.” At that moment a beautiful subtlety of white and golden cake shaped like a warrior’s helm was set before them, and they began to eat. It was delicious, flavored with honey and decorated with various candied fruits and cream, and the four companions complimented Théoden on the skill of his cooks. Théoden thanked them, pleased the subtlety had met with his guests’ approval, and for a time he and Aragorn discussed herbs and spices in cooking.

Gimli and Gandalf, having already eaten their fill of meat and cheese, ate but one small piece of subtlety apiece, but Legolas loved sweets and indulged himself in one more slice. He chatted happily to Gandalf and Gimli while he ate, washing the cake down with a glass of yellow wine, and Gimli leaned back in his chair, full, warm, clean, and content. Thus he sat up rather abruptly when Legolas suddenly changed color, eyes wide and dilated, pushing the subtlety back away from him and looking at Gandalf.

“Mithrandir!” he whispered, as though his throat hurt.

Gandalf looked at him in surprise. “What is it, Legolas?” he asked.

Legolas opened his mouth without speaking for a moment; Gimli saw he was very white, though his lips and ears were unusually red. His hands were braced on the edge of the table and he was trembling. At last he said in a choked voice, “Mithrandir – there are oak leaves in the subtlety!”

Gandalf started, his eyebrows bristling in surprise. “Are you sure of this?” he demanded intently, gripping Legolas’ slim wrist in his hand.

Legolas nodded, biting his lips and staring with frightened eyes at the wizard.

“Go, then!” hissed Gandalf, pushing him away from the table. “Go outside, or up to your room! Get rid of it all as quick as you can!”

Legolas did not have to be told twice. Faster than Gimli could mark him he had dashed out of the hall, only a wisp of hair and his falling serviette floating behind him in his flight. Everyone stared after him, and Éowyn rose, looking alarmed.

“What happened?” she asked, her hands dropping her serviette on her plate, preparing to go after him.

“Is he ill?” asked Théoden, surprised. “I did not think the Fair Folk succumbed to sickness as we do.”

“It is nothing,” said Gandalf loudly, for the benefit of the entire hall. “He is a Wood-Elf, and they are strange folk, as you no doubt have heard. Perhaps something in the meal has not agreed with him.” In a softer voice he leaned across to Aragorn and said, “Come with me – you and Gimli both. I think he is up in his rooms.” To Théoden he said, “Stay here, my lord; there is no need for you to be concerned. We will watch out for him.” And at that Gandalf swept Aragorn and Gimli out of the hall.

Gimli trotted to keep up with the wizard and man’s longer strides; while he ran behind them he heard Aragorn say, “What is it, Gandalf? I’ve never seen Legolas look like that before. Was it something he ate?”

“It was indeed,” growled Gandalf. He looked and sounded very cross. “Oak leaves! What fool puts oak leaves in a honey cake?”

“I’ve certainly never heard of one doing so before,” panted Gimli behind them. “Was that the slightly bitter taste, then? I thought it cut the sweetness of the honey well.”

“In this particular instance, I wish they’d used a different flavoring,” said Gandalf dryly, turning a corner and going up the stairs to the guests’ quarters. “The combination has, shall we say, a distracting effect on our woodland friends.”

Aragorn looked at Gandalf in amazement. “I thought that was but an unfounded rumour,” he said, looking intrigued.

“It’s no rumour,” said Gandalf blackly. He came to Legolas’ door, which was only partially shut; there was a chambermaid outside, holding an armful of firewood, looking perplexed and alarmed at the sounds coming from inside the room.

“I was going to lay the fire, my lords,” she said apologetically, stepping aside, “but the Elf ran past me and pushed me out, and now as you can see . . . “ she stopped, and Gimli could hear Legolas retching horribly inside the room. “I’m not so sure I should interrupt him, now,” she finished.

Gimli ran inside the room. Legolas was on his knees beside a chamber pot, his finger down his throat, urging everything he had eaten at the High Table into it; Aragorn knelt beside him and placed a hand on his diaphragm to help him, but Gimli had to turn away; it made his own gorge rise and he had no desire to re-taste the feast in such a way. “Let me see,” Gandalf said, and Gimli heard him walk over to Legolas; there was a pause, and he said, “I think you ate more than that, Legolas. Let me get you a feather.” Gimli turned in a slight panic to see the chambermaid looking apologetically through the door.

“Give that to me,” said Gimli to her, desperate for something to do; he took the wood from her and brought it to the hearth. He heard Gandalf say firmly to her: “Tell all the servants to leave the Elf alone tonight. He is very ill, and we shall tend him personally.”

“Yes, my lord,” said the girl wonderingly, casting a lingering glance at Legolas, who sat with his face in his hands, his elbows on the edges of the chamber pot while Aragorn pulled his hair from his face to keep it out of the way. That really wasn’t fair, thought Gimli; Legolas could be attractive even while getting sick. Gandalf gently ushered the girl out of the room and shut the door behind her, saying,

“Remember, no one is to come near his room tonight, not even you, my dear.” He closed the door, looked about the room for a moment until his eyes lighted upon a writing table, and took up a quill pen. He gave it to Legolas and said, “Try it again, Legolas, see if you can get any more of it up.”

Gimli turned sharply away and tried to block out the noise by building up the fire, telling himself Legolas would certainly need warmth and comfort after this exercise. It was impossible to drown his friend out entirely, and after fifteen ghastly minutes he heard Aragorn say, “That surely is enough, Gandalf; I don’t even think he ate that much.”

“It always looks like more when it comes back up,” said Gandalf complacently, and Gimli heard Legolas groan. Filled with compassion and not a little guilt, Gimli set up the hearth screen and went over to his friend. Aragorn was removing the chamber pot, and Gandalf was wetting a cloth in the basin. Gimli took it from him and knelt beside Legolas, lightly wiping his damp face and smoothing his golden hair back from his forehead. The Elf was very white, and breathing shallowly and quickly, and his eyes were closed; he looked very wretched.

“There you are, my friend,” said Gimli gently, dabbing at Legolas’ lips and putting his arm around the shaking shoulders. “I’m sure that will set you right.”

“I am not positive it has,” said Legolas, his voice hoarse; his throat had been scratched by the acids in his stomach. “Mithrandir, I still feel it; I didn’t get it all.”

“There is nothing left in you to come up,” said Gandalf, sitting in a chair beside them. “I’m afraid some of it got into your blood despite your precautions.”

“Perhaps it wasn’t enough to cause a problem,” said Aragorn, coming back into the room with a clean chamber pot and setting it down before Legolas.

“No,” said Legolas miserably, hiding his face in his hands once more. “It was sufficient; I can feel it.” He groaned lightly, and lowered his head so far that his forehead rested on the edge of the pot. Gimli anxiously rubbed his back, unsure of what else to do; Legolas’ next words were muffled: “I feel awful.”

There was a knock at the door, and Théoden and Éomer entered, both looking concerned; they looked at Legolas kneeling by the chamber pot and both began apologizing for the food at the banquet. “I had no idea it would upset an Elf’s stomach so,” said Théoden contritely. “Who would have guessed your constitutions were so delicate?”

“They’re not,” said Gandalf. He took out his pipe, glanced at Legolas’ bowed head, changed his mind and put it back. “It was a combination of two foods in the subtlety that did it, I’m afraid – honey and oak leaves.”

“Oak leaves?” said Théoden, puzzled. “I’ve never heard of my cook adding oak leaves to anything, least of all a sweet cake.”

“Are they even edible?” asked Éomer in surprise. “I had no idea.”

Gandalf and Aragorn exchanged glances. “Never?” asked Aragorn, and his voice had a sharp edge to it that did not escape the notice of the two men. “Are you sure?”

“Quite sure,” said Théoden. “Never, as long as I have reigned at Meduseld, has my cook added oak leaves to anything. I am often in the kitchens, for I enjoy my meals; I’m sure I would know.”

“Legolas,” said Gandalf, turning to the Elf, “do you want to lie down? Gimli, tuck him up in bed; I see you’ve built a nice high fire, which will also help. Get him out of his tunic; it’s somewhat stained, and get him into a clean nightshirt. Aragorn and I need to speak with Théoden and Éomer.” Gimli nodded and turned to Legolas.

“Come, my friend!” he said gently. “Let me help you up.” While he was thus occupied, Gandalf led the three men outside the room and quietly shut the door. He looked both ways, up and down the hallway, to make sure there was no chance of an eavesdropper hearing him, then he said,

“Théoden, Éomer, Aragorn already knows something of what has been given to Legolas, but I feel obliged to explain to you what is happening to him.” He looked resigned, and even a little uncomfortable. “Oak leaves mixed in honey are – well – I’m sure you’ve heard of love philters, haven’t you?” he asked, a little desperately. “You know, love potions – though they’re not really love potions necessarily; they’re more lust potions – for the fulfillment of desires, not meant for truly making another person fall in love with you.”

“There are no such things as love potions,” scoffed Éomer, looking to Aragorn. “That sort of stuff belongs in a young girl’s romantic stories. It’s ridiculous; I’ve never heard of such a thing in reality.”

“Haven’t you seen enough strange and unusual things lately to convince you otherwise?” asked Aragorn. “I confess, when I read about it myself many years ago I dismissed it as rumour, but if Gandalf says it is the truth, and that Elves are aroused by this combination – “

“As far as I know, it only applies to Wood-Elves,” confessed Gandalf; “I’ve never had occasion to ask Elrond if his people are susceptible as well.”

“Odd!” said Aragorn. “Well, if they are . . . “ he trailed off, looking thoughtful.

“Forget it!” said Gandalf. “You don’t need it, trust me.”

“Besides,” said Gimli, who had come out and heard the last part of the conversation, “the retching wouldn’t be very romantic.”

“How is he?” asked Éomer, looking awkwardly at the door.

“Irritable,” said Gimli with grim satisfaction. “Told me to get my hands off him and let him alone. He’s sitting in front of the fire, wrapped in a blanket.”

“What should we do?” asked Théoden. “Will it pass soon, do you think?”

“Well, he’ll be very cross for a few days,” sighed Gandalf, “but the worst of it should be over tonight. If only we could – “ He glanced around again, then leaned in close to Théoden and said self-consciously, “Have you any whores in Meduseld? Perhaps if we could persuade one to – “

The bedroom door banged open, and Legolas stood before them, white and furious, though Gimli saw his lips and ears were still very pink. He had removed his soiled tunic and leggings and was wrapped only in a blanket; his pale skin looked almost translucent in the dim light of the passageway. “No whores!” he rasped angrily, and slammed the door shut again; they heard the key turn in the lock, and something – the chamber pot, perhaps – clattered as it was kicked over. Gandalf sighed and motioned the three men and the Dwarf to follow him down the passageway, back to the Great Hall.

“No whores,” he said regretfully to Théoden. “It certainly would have made him a more pleasant traveling companion.”

“It’s probably for the best, anyway,” said Gimli thoughtfully; “I don’t think we’d have enough money for a good one; all we could afford would be some old hag, and I’m sure Legolas would be horribly insulted.”

“Gimli,” said Gandalf patiently, “Legolas wouldn’t care if it were an old, bald, toothless witch at this point; the philter is very strong. We must do all we can to keep any female servants away from this passage,” he said to Théoden and Éomer. “I don’t think he’d resort to coercion, but if any chamber maid showed the slightest bit of interest I’m not sure he could restrain himself.”

“Every maid in the city has been making eyes at him since he entered here,” said Éomer, making a wry face. “Yes, we’d best keep the passageway clear. Don’t worry, Gandalf!” he said, clapping the wizard on the shoulder. “I’m sure he’ll get over it soon enough; we’ll just let him be tonight, and we’re off in the morning anyway.”

“And none too soon!” grumbled Gimli. “I don’t like it; why would there have been oak leaves in a honey cake, when there hadn’t been before? It seems very suspicious to me.”

“How would anyone have known?” shrugged Gandalf. “It’s only the most minor piece of trivia; I’m sure no one in the entire kingdom has ever heard of it before.”


	2. 2

Éowyn waited until all was silent in the rooms around her before she got out of bed. She was clad only in a thin white shift, and she was cold, but she was very reluctant to put any other clothing on. She sat down by the fire and with a strong poker pried a brick loose from the edge of the hearth; it slid out, revealing a small cache-hole, in which was an old, battered book. She removed it and opened it, leafing through the brittle pages carefully until she came upon the passage she wanted. Slowly she read it again, though she had gone over it so many times in the past few hours she was certain she had it memorized.

 

The application of pressure, either by touching or stroking, upon the points  
of the ears, elicits a strong response, irresistible to the recipient; in addition,  
when the potion of honey and powdered leaves of oak is administered,  
such a powerful reaction is obtained that opposition to sexual activity is futile,  
and the Elf is rendered powerless to resist its baser instincts, resulting in  
copulation of an intense and prolonged type, which is characteristic of this  
species.

 

She shuddered deeply, not certain whether she was excited or afraid. A little of both, she supposed; her mind, once made up, was not easily changed, but even for a maiden as brave as Éowyn of Rohan the upcoming task was intimidating. She made to put the book back in its cache, then changed her mind and put it back on her lap. Carefully she tore the page from the book, hesitated, then with an abrupt movement flung it on the fire. She watched it moodily as its edges curled and smoked; then when it flared into flame she gave another shudder.

Why does he not want me? she asked herself for the fiftieth time that day. Time and again she had caught Lord Aragorn’s eye; he had smiled at her, she was certain, and spoke to her intelligently and with interest; yet when she had approached him in the hallways leading to the guest chambers, she had detected no following glint in his eye, no indication he desired her. And his companions were likewise disinterested; the Dwarf, comical and a little frightening, was unreadable; the Grey Pilgrim from another world, and the Elf –

Éowyn paused to consider the Elf. Legolas, she thought; it must mean something in his own language, but what? What was his land like, his lord; what were his people like? Were they like he was, lithe and long-limbed and fair? She knew but little of the Fair Folk; topic of legend they were, and she had long since discarded fairy tales for the more robust, masculine accounts of warfare and political intrigue. Only those few lines in an old book long forgotten held any practical information on the Eldar. For herself, he did not inspire much ardor in her; his beautiful and hairless face and long, pale hair bespoke more of a woman’s graces than a man’s to her mind; she greatly preferred her men dark and bearded, as was Aragorn. But the respect in his eyes and voice when he spoke to and of his friend was vilification enough for Éowyn. He would do, lacking the preferred party, when others would not. Not Éothain, certainly; he was eager, perhaps too eager; Éowyn desired to instigate, not to be lead.

She slid the book back into its hiding place and put the brick back over it, then rose and picked up two small earthenware jars with tight lids that had been set to warm on the hearth. She started towards the door, but paused, looking down at herself; the white linen was too thin, and anyone she would happen upon would be able to see parts of her never before seen outside her own bedchamber, and certainly not by any men save her father, long departed. Quickly she took up a long blue robe and tied it about herself, then taking up the pots again she quietly slipped out of her chambers.

It was very simple to tread the passageways unmarked. Her training in the arts of warfare and espionage was put to good use, and she traversed the hallways without meeting a soul. Once, at the turning to the guests’ quarters stairwell, she happened upon some guards, but she had only to wait until they had paced out of sight before creeping silently up the dark passageway to the next landing. Heart in stomach, she paused on the landing, looking at the door on her right – the one she knew housed Aragorn son of Arathorn. She stepped up to it and pressed her ear against it, listening. She heard a light snoring sound, the slightest rumbling, and sighed. He was asleep, and had rebuffed her advances before; there was no sense trying to travel that trail again. She stepped back, looked at the doors that hid Gandalf and the Dwarf from her, and turned back to the Elf’s room. His door was locked, but that posed no problem for her; as lady of Edoras she had keys to every room in Meduseld. She turned the key with a steady hand and pushed the door open, stepping into the dark room.

The Elf was seated on the bed, upright, his knees pulled up to his chin and his arms wrapped around his calves. His form was dark against the starry window, but his eyes glittered and reflected back the light as a cat’s. Éowyn suppressed a shiver when he looked at her. Repulsive and attractive all at once; it was difficult to know what to think of him.

“What do you want?” he whispered. Éowyn could hear the agitation in his voice.

“To see if you are well,” she answered, closing the door behind her and turning her key surreptitiously in the lock. She wanted no surprise visitors. “I heard from my brother that you had been sick, and thought you would like some warm soup to eat, before retiring for bed.” She took a step forward, holding up the larger pot. The smaller one she had secreted behind herself on one of the tables as she’d entered. She wasn’t sure how good the Elf’s eyes were and whether he had noticed; she hoped if he had that he would attribute it to the strangeness of her race.

“I am not hungry,” said the Elf, and dropped his head back down to his knees.

“I did not say you would be,” said Éowyn, trying to keep her voice from sounding patronizing. “But from what I heard, your stomach is completely empty, and that is not good; you need something soothing on it so that you can rest well.” She walked up to the bed and sat upon it; he did not move nor look at her. “This is a good, solid soup,” she said, “made of beef-shin and cream, with sweet basil and ginger root. It will relieve any discomfort you feel, and aid in your seeking sleep.”

The Elf raised his head to look at her, though he glanced quickly away again. His voice was strained. “I do not mean to seem unfriendly or ungrateful,” he said, “but I do not want any soup. Please, I beg you, my lady, let me alone.”

“So speak all who suffer the pangs of stomach ailments!” sighed Éowyn. She eased the lid off the earthenware jar and held it out to him. “Come, friend Elf; I seek only your comfort; but drink the soup I bring you, and I shall go.” She waited, arms outstretched, and after a moment he turned back to her and said,

“I have but to drink the soup, and you will leave me?”

“Yes,” said Éowyn. “It grieves me to know my presence is so unwelcome to you, but if it will aid me in convincing you to drink this soup, then so be it. My only desire is for your well-being.”

The Elf took a deep, shuddering breath, and unwound his limbs. He was clad only in a light shirt, and his arms and legs seemed long and thin, like a spider’s, though white and luminous. He reached his slim hands out to hers to take the jar, touching her fingers, and shook so hard he threatened to spill it; Éowyn steadied his hands and guided the edge of the jar to his lips, which glistened wetly in the starlight. She tilted it slightly and he drank a few draughts, pushing it away after a moment, but retaining his hold on it so that her hands dropped into her lap.

“I do not know the customs of your race,” she said slowly, rising to her feet, “but I perceive my closeness to you is making you uncomfortable. I will stand over here, then, while you drink.”

“Thank you,” he said hesitantly; Éowyn noticed his voice was rougher than it had been when she’d listened to him speak in the Great Hall. She moved over to the fireplace, seeing that the fire had died down; she took up a few faggots and laid them on the embers, crouching down to blow on them. They caught and started to burn, and the room became lighter and warmer. When she stood up and turned back to him, he was watching her keenly, his glass-grey eyes intent, but as soon as he saw she had turned to him he looked down into the jar and took another deep draught. Heart thrumming in her fingertips, she said, “Ah, that is better; this room is far too cold. I am going to put more wood in the fire. I do not want you to catch a chill.” So speaking, she piled more wood on until the fire roared and crackled, and filled the icy room with heat and warm yellow light. By this time he had all but finished the soup, and in the homelier light of flame did not look so alien and cold to her. The firelight glinted upon his smooth, porcelain skin, and turned his ashen hair to a sheet of living gold. She looked at his hands as they turned the jar round about, feeling the horse-head carvings on it, and saw the archer’s calluses upon the slim fingers, and the strong tendons beneath the white skin. His bare legs were smoothly muscled and firm, moving restlessly upon the bed; even his feet were long and narrow and white. She felt a trickle of perspiration snake its way between her breasts and said, a little breathlessly: “Now I have made your room too warm!” And she untied the robe from around her waist and let it slip from her shoulders.

The Elf jerked his face away from her, bringing one pallid hand up to shield her from his sight; she laughed lightly and said, “You are passing strange, Master Elf! I had not heard the Firstborn were so squeamish.” She tossed her hair behind one shoulder and crossed the room to the table where he had laid his effects.

“We are not,” said the Elf shortly, watching her between his fingers. “But although I am used to the company of my own kind, yet the company of a daughter of Men is to me just as strange as you find me, perhaps.”

“Perhaps not so strange,” murmured Éowyn, taking up his knife and scabbard. “This is your knife, is it not, friend Elf? It is of marvelous workmanship; the haft is beautiful, and the scabbard so richly decorated it seems to me it would more adorn a king’s belt than an archer’s. May I unsheathe it?”

“Feel free,” said the Elf. He was watching her now with hooded eyes, the earthenware jar resting on his knee. Éowyn smiled.

“Have you finished your soup?” she asked. “If so, I will leave you, should you wish it.”

The Elf looked down into the bowl. “I am almost done,” he said, and brought the jar to his lips again, watching her over the rim. Éowyn turned back to the knife and drew it from its scabbard. It slid out in a smooth, silent motion; the blade was white and sharp, and worked over with gleaming runes and signs. She turned it over, then swung it from side to side.

“Nice balance,” she said appreciatively, smiling at him, holding the knife almost negligently in her hand, though her body was tense and wary. “You are skilled at it, I suppose.”

“As well as most,” he answered, but his voice sounded sluggish. Éowyn looked carefully at him. His head had drooped, the flaxen hair swinging over his thighs, and his thumbs traced the edges of the jar absently. The muscles of his forearms and legs were relaxed, pliable. She took an experimental step towards the bed.

“I am sure you are a formidable enemy,” she crooned, reaching with her free hand for the other, smaller jar and unscrewing the cap while cradling the knife with her other hand. “You are fierce and deadly, a worthy comrade in arms for the noble Lord Aragorn.”

“Aragorn,” murmured the Elf, turning the jar over in his hands.

Éowyn took up the opened jar and the knife and crept carefully toward the bed. “Your foes fall before you,” she said softly. “Mighty is your arm, and all fell creatures flee from you, fearing to face your wrath.”

“My wrath,” he repeated in a thick, warm voice. The jar tumbled from his hands between his thighs, and a droplet of soup dribbled out of it onto the bed. Éowyn looked at the white cream on the sheets and trembled.

“Maidens swoon when they see your face,” she said, her voice shaking. “They hear your voice and give all their love to you.”

“Love – “ the Elf said, then his head swung up unsteadily, and he stared at her in horror, his pupils so swollen his eyes appeared black. But Éowyn had seen his muscles tense, and was ready for him. In an instant she was upon him, straddling him on the bed and holding the knife to his throat firmly enough to cut through the marble skin. She heard him gasp, but the potion in him was too strong, making his responses lethargic.

“Be quiet and still!” she said, smiling down at him. “Do as I say, and no harm will come to you.”

“What are you doing?” he whispered. She could feel him shaking beneath her, and his hands were twitching; she wondered whether he wanted to kill her or take her. She would take no chances, though; that was why she’d brought the other jar.

“Quiet!” she ordered again, sitting up a little and setting the jar on the bedside table, though she kept her eye on him and the knife at his throat. She slipped her index finger into the jar, feeling the glutinous liquid adhere to it, then drew it out and set it to his lips.

His tongue flicked out when he felt it, but as soon as he realized what it was he pressed his lips together, suddenly angry. He tried to struggle up against her, but she pressed the knife in more deeply, piercing the skin. A trickle of blood ran down the ivory pillar of his throat onto the sheets, where it soaked in and spread out. He stilled instantly, and she laughed softly, mirthlessly. “Yes, that’s right,” she said, and even though she was not exactly sure what she was doing she pressed down harder against his stomach. She could feel a hard, male lump at her buttocks, and so foreign and frightening was it to her she almost leapt up and ran, but remembering her courage she strengthened her resolve and pressed back upon it. He tried to squirm aside, but she jabbed the knifepoint into his neck again, and more blood trickled out, and he was still again.

“You keep your knife nice and sharp,” she congratulated him, rubbing her honeyed finger against his lips. “I advise you to remember that, friend Elf, before you fight me again. I have the advantage over you tonight.” She pushed her finger against his mouth and said, more firmly, “Taste it!”

He shook his head, eyes burning, even though the knifepoint pierced more deeply at the motion. Angrily Éowyn reached up to the pink tip of his pointed ear and squeezed hard.

He bucked up against her and cried out, and although she almost lost her balance she thrust her finger between his lips, which closed around it. She could feel his tongue and teeth and the warm moistness of his mouth, and then his tongue sought to push her finger out. She moved the knife to his Adam’s apple and snarled, “Eat it!” The Elf opened his eyes, which were becoming glazed with tears, though whether they were tears of pain or anger Éowyn neither knew nor cared. Reluctantly he made a light sucking movement with his tongue, and the honey was in his mouth. Éowyn had to cover his mouth with her palm and pinch his nostrils shut with her fingers before he would consent to swallow it. She pressed down on the knife again, holding his eyes with her own, and once again coated her finger with the philter. He squeezed his lips together, shaking his head desperately, until Éowyn grasped the tip of his ear and pulled unmercifully and he cried out again. This time when he arched up against her, she could feel the unmistakable outline of his male organ on her inner thigh; she put her finger in his mouth and said, “Swallow!”

Tears ran down the sides of the Elf’s temples, but he didn’t suckle and swallow until she removed the knife and, with the other hand, brutally pinched the tip of his other ear. Crying aloud and twisting in agony beneath her, he swallowed reflexively, and his body gave a great shudder. He pressed his eyes shut and bit his lip. Éowyn reached for the jar again, the flat of the knife lying athwart his great vein and leaving a paper-thin line of blood under his jaw; she paused as he whispered desperately:

“Please, my lady – please – don’t do this – don’t do this to me.”

In reply Éowyn tightened the grip she had about his thighs and twisted the tip of his ear so hard he gave a great choking gasp and bowed his slim body up into hers. He drew in his breath in a shuddering sob and begged, “Please – please, my lady – “ But Éowyn turned a deaf ear to his entreaties and, growing impatient with the protracted efficacy of the potion, took up a great glob of it in her hand and clapped it over his mouth.

“Eat it!” she commanded, forcing the knife further into his skin. Moaning in pain and frustration the Elf opened his lips and Éowyn forced the handful of honey into him, pushing deeply in so he couldn’t spit it out; he gagged on it, but she gave his ear another vicious twist and he swallowed convulsively.

He had eaten half the jar; Éowyn waited a moment, moving the knife across his throat teasingly and watching his face, looking for some sign the philter was taking effect. The Elf gave another great shudder, squeezing his eyes tight, and gave a guttural wheeze; Éowyn was pleased to note his skin was flushed, and the hard lump tucked between the soft folds of flesh at her thighs was twitching and quivering. His arms were flaccid, though they shook spasmodically, and his breath was coming in notched gasps. After a moment he moved his arms a little on the bed; Éowyn tightened her grip on the knife and pressed it harder against his throat. The Elf opened his eyes. He was weeping freely now.

“Please, do not do this,” he grated, but Éowyn only smiled and grasped his ear roughly. He tried to pull away, but she pinched it hard, feeling him jump and kick against her; horsewoman that she was she kept her seat and gripped him all the tighter with her legs. His strength was waning, she could feel it; weak as he had been when she’d entered the room, consuming half the philter, as well as the bit she’d secreted in the soup, was having its effect, and he struggled feebly, his rebellious body straining to push up against her while his will fought to pull away. She pinched his ear again, twisting it violently, and this time when he cried out it was half in pain, half in pleasure, and his eyes when they opened were clouded with desire. Still holding the knife to his throat, she untied the laces at the front of her shift and opened it, exposing herself to him, then she took up the jar and poured the rest of the potion upon her breasts. She felt the thick warm liquid slide down her skin over her nipples, and watched the Elf as he with his eyes tracked the honey on its journey. She shifted his knife in her hand, holding the point under his earlobe, and leaned over him, bringing her breasts up to his mouth.

“Suckle them,” she commanded him, and when he hesitated, mouth clamped shut, she pressed the knife under the ear while giving the other ear a vicious pinch. He sobbed out something in his own tongue, and then, to Éowyn’s consternation, his hands were upon the points of her pelvic bone, fingers grasping her firmly, though they still trembled. Realizing he had moved unconsciously, and that perhaps he had had enough of the potion to be finally tractable, she eased up on the pressure of the knife, and with the other hand began to massage the point of his ear.

He gave a great groan then, eyes shut and brows drawn together; then he opened his eyes and looked at her, and the fear and anger in them made her pull hard on his ear until he cried aloud again. Tears coursed down the sides of his face and he started to sob again in Elvish. Éowyn hardened her heart and pressed the nipple of one breast up to his mouth. “Suckle on it!” she ordered again.

Very slowly, and without opening his eyes, the Elf parted his lips, letting the nipple slide softly between them. Éowyn’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment; it did not feel as she had thought it would. His mouth was hot, engulfing the areola, and she felt his velvet tongue circle it lightly. Then there was a pulling sensation, and he swallowed, and Éowyn realized he had taken the philter himself, without her forcing him to. His fingers on her hips relaxed a little, then the hands trailed down the outsides of her thighs and back up to her hips, around back to her buttocks, and squeezed lightly as his mouth opened around her breast. Éowyn choked back a gasp when he scraped his teeth across her tender skin, cleaning off the honey, and again he swallowed, and his hands moved, this time up her back. She was suddenly aware of her own hands, that had up until now been strongly and insistently grasping his knife and the tip of his ear; suddenly they seemed too heavy, and the joints felt thick; it was with a great effort she tightened her grip on the haft of his white knife and pressed down upon the sharp point of his ear.

He moaned deep in his throat, and the vibration of his tongue upon her other nipple made her huff a little; suspecting deception she moved the knife to the side of his face. He opened his eyes, and her heart started to pound even harder; gone was the look of horrified submission; his pale eyes were black and clouded with thoughtless desire; Éowyn was not even certain he knew who she was, nor cared any more. With a negligent twitch of his head he pushed the knife away from his cheek, leaving a thin bloody line, then his strong hands moved up her ribcage, pressing her body down upon his own, and he began licking and scraping the potion off her breasts with tongue and teeth, sometimes biting down so hard upon her nipples she gave a little cry, and twisted his ear until he stopped. But now he didn’t pull back or weep with pain and humiliation; he ignored the knife, devouring her breasts until the honey had been consumed and letting his hands roam over her body, from her thighs to her buttocks to her shoulders.

Éowyn began to get a little concerned; he was supposed to be submitting to her, not overwhelming her, and although it felt good to have his hands and mouth upon her he was not gentle or loving. His fingers grasped and pulled, his teeth nipped and bit at her tender skin, and worst of all he disdained the pressure of the knife on his throat and curled his body upwards to her, taking her torso within the overpowering circle of his pallid arms and writhing his stiff member against her. Deciding she had had enough, and that he ought to return to his previous passive position, she said, “Lie still!” and tried to lay the edge of the blade against his throat.

She found herself thrown aside, one arm grasped and twisted behind her; the knife shot sideways out of her grip and clattered across the floor, spraying tiny spatters of blood where it struck. It had slid across the Elf’s shoulder in the struggle, cutting him deeply, but he didn’t even seem to notice; he had her flipped over onto her back and pinned beneath him, his slim hips wriggling across her body, seeking something with a trembling desperation, his knees between her own, forcing her legs apart. One hand held her arm above her head, the other was on the side of her face, holding her still while his mouth, still sticky and sweet from the philter, greedily consumed her own; she could feel his long fingers shakily tracing the pattern of the outside of her ear, as though they sought a familiar shape. His tongue forced her lips apart, and though up until that moment no man had ever kissed the mouth of the White Lady of Rohan, she discovered how wild and untamed a kiss could be beneath the frenetic ministrations of lips and teeth and tongue as they danced inside of her.

His other hand slid down her arm to her breasts, squeezing them and pinching the nipples, then continued on down her side to the edge of her shift, which was bunched up around her hips; he grasped it and heaved it upwards, exposing her nakedness to his hands. She had never felt men’s fingers upon her in those regions and she started to become frightened by how rough they were with her. And still the hard, hot bulge under his nightshirt rasped and scraped over the swell beneath her navel; she could feel the warm linen start to ride up with the movement, and then to her horror it was touching her – first her thigh, then the curly hairs between her thighs, thrusting and pushing, then his hips drew back and his hands held her down and she felt something moving between the soft folds of flesh that guarded her; she tried to close her thighs, to keep it from happening, for now that it came to it she was not quite certain she wanted to lose her maidenhood in this fashion, but it was too late – the Elf clove her, lunging forward hungrily, tearing her and abrading her deep inside, and swallowing her cry of pain with his mouth. Then he drew out and plunged in again, arching his back, his arms trembling and his eyes squeezed shut, and to Éowyn’s amazement it hurt even more the second time, and the third, and the fourth, and the – by that point she started to lose count; he was battering her unmercifully, falling upon her with a frenzied hunger, biting her and clawing her with such ferocity he drew blood. He had become a wild thing, uncontrolled and unrestrained, bucking and driving against her so viciously she could scarcely breathe for his weight upon her. And when he cried out in abandon, releasing his seed within her, she was not even then given reprieve; still he continued to violate her, pounding her into the bed like a mallet, and when she felt liquid oozing out between her legs and down the crack in her backside she wasn’t sure whether it was his seed or her blood, or both. When she tried to squirm out from underneath him he turned her over again, pressing her face into the bed sheets to stifle her cries, forcing her legs apart with his knees and entering her again, and again, and again, taking her with an intensity she had not foreseen. And still he sank his teeth into her, biting and sucking on her skin, reaching around to her breasts and squeezing them unmercifully, drawing her up against his rising torso so that she faced the climbing moon out of the window, his arms wrapped around her, still taking her from behind as she sat on his lap. His long hair, bleached white in the pale light, was wound and twisted about her throat and arms; she could see it laying against her breasts and could feel it tickling her stomach. He pressed his face into her neck and started to groan in time with his thrusts; then the thrusts slowed, and the groans became sobs. His arms weakened and let her go, and he slid out of her and crumpled upon the bed, his face hidden in the covers and his body curled in upon itself.

Éowyn collapsed beside him, fighting for breath, moving her hips with difficulty through the pain. Her head was spinning and she felt two steps away from breaking into hysterical weeping. But upon the bed stand, fully illuminated by the moon and mocking her with its presence, was the earthenware jar into which she had poured clover honey and stirred dried, crushed oak leaves. She had known what she had been doing. Everything had gone according to plan.


	3. 3

There was silence between them, broken only by the crackle in the darkling embers, the shift of wood upon the grate, and the ragged sobs of her companion. Éowyn was afraid to move. She wanted desperately to quit this room, to leave it and its memories far behind her, but her legs would not move; her knees were too wobbly, and her private regions were rubbed so raw she was sure she’d never be able to sit up straight again. She lay as still as she could, and when the Elf moved, her breath caught in her throat. But he rolled off the bed quickly, moving across the room and falling to his knees upon the floor; Éowyn heard him retch harshly, and she sat up. He was holding the chamber pot in his hands, and vomiting into it. He inhaled with a harsh, grinding noise and vomited again, his body spasming and convulsing with the force of it. Éowyn sat aghast as his stomach rejected every drop of philter she had forced down his throat; she had never seen anyone so violently ill and was hard-put not to gag herself at the sight.

After fifteen sickening minutes he appeared to have stopped, and leaned heavily upon the settee beside him, his face in his hands, shivering. There was another pregnant pause, longer than the first, and Éowyn began to get uncomfortable; she could think of no parting words for him, so she decided to simply leave. But when she moved to swing her legs over the edge of his bed, he lurched forward across the floor, faster than she herself could have moved but still sluggish in his drugged state. His hand clutched the haft of his knife where it lay on the floor, streaked with blood, and he rolled onto his side, holding it in front of him and staring up at her with hatred in his light eyes. Éowyn could see the tenseness in his muscles, bunched and ready to strike, and she knew that even though he still felt the effects of the philter she would be no match for him, unarmed as she was.

“Let me out,” she said firmly.

“No,” angrily answered the Elf. “You will stay here until I fetch your uncle and brother. Then we shall see how much trust they put in you to watch over your people!”

“I’ll scream,” she threatened, taking a deep breath. She saw him stiffen, realizing that at the moment she still had the advantage over him. She continued triumphantly, “I’ll scream and say you raped me. I’ll show them how you’ve taken my maidenhood from me. And even if your friends don’t believe me, the men of Edoras will, and you will be struck down before you even leave Meduseld.”

He regarded her for a moment, a myriad of emotions flitting across his tear-stained face; at last he bit his lip in frustration and lowered the knife. He sat up and brushed his hair back from his face with tremulous hands, turning away from her as he did so. Éowyn got out of the bed and walked stiffly over to where her blue robe still lay, spread out on the floor in front of the hearth. She bent over slowly to pick it up, and shrugged it on with a groan. As she was tying it around her waist, he spoke from directly behind her, though she hadn’t heard him move.

“Why did you do this to me?” he asked harshly.

She turned to him wearily, running her fingers through the snarls in her hair. He was still pale from his vomiting, and his limbs were quivering as though he had palsy. “Because I didn’t want to die a virgin,” she said, her voice cold and uncaring, “and I decided to experiment on you, since your friend Aragorn was unresponsive to my advances.”

“Of course he was unresponsive,” said the Elf hotly, flushing. “He is betrothed to another.”

Éowyn felt her heart turn to ice, and she flinched as though the Elf had slapped her. “Who is she?” she asked flatly.

“Arwen Undómiel, the daughter of Elrond; an Elf woman,” said the Elf. He turned away from her and went to the basin beside the fireplace. He took out a cloth, wrung the water from it, and started to dab at his neck, wincing a little. Éowyn noticed he had put the knife down, but she didn’t know where; it made her a little nervous, as though there were a viper in a woodpile she couldn’t see but knew was there. “You have no chance,” he said, looking her over unkindly; “Aragorn would never choose a mere mortal over the love of a beautiful Elf. I don’t blame him; I wouldn’t, either.” He rinsed out the cloth in the basin and started to wash the blood from his shoulder.

Éowyn couldn’t speak. There was a dull roaring sound in her ears, and she felt as though her head was heavy and stuffed with cotton wadding. Her vision tunneled a little and she wavered on her feet, hoping against hope she wouldn’t faint. She clutched the mantelpiece with one hand and said weakly, “She is beautiful?”

“Yes,” said the Elf, glancing with malice at her; “beautiful and gentle and wise; the loveliest Elf-maiden in Arda. Her hair is dark as midnight, her skin like the moon glowing on alabaster, and her voice soft and melodious. All who see her love her. Aragorn chose well.”

Éowyn looked over at the Elf; she saw that although he was putting on a show of indifference to her his hands were quivering as he wrung out the bloody cloth. She was stung by his comments, and said, to salvage her ego: “You shouldn’t be so angry with me, friend Elf; you’ve just been given something many men in this kingdom have greatly desired but been denied.”

He turned to her then, his pallid hair swinging about his shoulders. He was white-lipped and shaking, an angry fire in his bright eyes. His hands balled into fists at his sides. “You did not give it to me, Lady Éowyn,” he spat, chin trembling. “You forced me to take that which I would never have wanted – not even if all the Elf-women of Middle Earth sailed to Valinor, and I was the only Firstborn left.”

Smarting from this retort, Éowyn drew back in rage, eyes flashing. She clutched her robe about herself and turned to the door, preparing to storm out, and planning on slamming the door in his face so hard the entire passageway would shake. But faster than she could blink he had come up behind her, one arm wrapped about her waist, the other clutching her shoulders fiercely and pressing them up to his chest, his hand over her mouth so she could not cry out. She thrashed about, desperately trying to evade his grasp, but the philter was starting to wear off and his strength was returning. Yet he still had some of the potion in his veins; Éowyn could feel he was rock-hard, pushing up against her buttocks.

She was expecting him to take her again, and was just debating whether to give in to him or to start screaming, thus sealing his death, when the hand around her waist shifted until it was over her pudenda. His long fingers gripped her tightly, and in her ear she could hear and feel him breathing out words in his own tongue. She couldn’t understand them, but they sounded like a chant.

Suddenly Éowyn’s raw and bleeding passage began to grow warm, and she felt an inexorable tightness deep within her. A soft, soothing wave washed over her entire pelvis, and Éowyn realized it was not so much a feeling of pleasure, but the sudden absence of pain and discomfort. The stinging and burning vanished, and the dull ache of her torn and battered hymen faded away entirely.

The Elf fell silent, and moved his hand back to her stomach. Éowyn stirred experimentally; even the rubbing, stinging, aching feeling was gone. He lowered his head once more to her ear and said hoarsely:

“There – I have healed your maidenhead; you are a virgin once more.” Then, pushing her roughly across the room, he drew a key out of the desk drawer, unlocked the door and opened it; taking Éowyn by the hair he flung her over the doorstop into the hallway, slamming the door closed behind her and locking it.

Éowyn rolled to her feet, glanced quickly about to make sure no one was watching, and then gathered the skirt of her robe up in her hands and fled down the hallway.


	4. 4

When Éowyn decided to get out of bed the next morning, it wasn’t because it was time to get up; it was because she had lain awake for hours unable to sleep. She was consumed with misery, telling herself she was broken hearted over the idea of Aragorn’s betrothed. She was also aggravated; she had gone to a lot of trouble to lose her virginity before the storm of war descended upon her, and that damned Elf had given it back to her like a blow in the face. Her chagrin changed to anger, which was a much more comfortable emotion anyway, and she stalked the halls, seeing to the mustering of troops, the gathering of arms, and the packing up of the townsfolk. It galled her to have to run from battle with the women and children, but she could not disobey her uncle.

When the household began to stir, she made ready a meal for Théoden, Éomer, and their guests; she knew they would be there momentarily to eat, and her heart started pounding in her chest. She told herself it was because she was excited about seeing Aragorn again. That may indeed have been partially true; she firmly pushed back any anxiety about seeing the Elf, telling herself he wasn’t relevant anymore. She had gone to him to lose her virginity; she was still a virgin; ergo, nothing had happened, Q.E.D.

Quietly the men began to file into the Great Hall; servants brought out smoking trenchers and flagons of warm ale. Her heart leaped when she saw Aragorn, and her eyes devoured his face from the shadows in which she hid; he looked much as he had the previous day, handsome and preoccupied and withdrawn. Beside him were Gimli the Dwarf and Gandalf the Grey Pilgrim. They sat with Théoden and Éomer and began to eat. Éowyn edged nearer, unnoticed.

“Where is Legolas, your friend?” asked her uncle of Aragorn. “I hope he is well; he was certainly quite wretched yesterday evening.”

“He said he was still a little under the weather,” answered Gimli in his gravelly voice. “White as a sheet and still very shaky.”

Théoden clucked his tongue, and Éomer said sympathetically, “Stomach illnesses are the worst to endure, especially before a long ride. I hope he’ll be up to it?” He turned to Gandalf and lowered his voice. “It is a shame we couldn’t – you know – to make him less – as you said – irritable.”

Gandalf chuckled at this, also lowering his voice. Éowyn strained to hear him as he said: “Don’t worry about that aspect of it! I caught sight of a woman leaving his rooms sometime after the third watch.”

The men all laughed coarsely, and Éowyn blushed. Her fingernails dug into the palms of her hands. Théoden, looking about to make sure none of his men could hear, asked, “Who was it? Could you see? One of the chambermaids, perhaps?”

“No, all I saw was long blonde hair; that could’ve been anyone,” said Gandalf, smiling. “I asked him about it this morning. He said it was only a young and inexperienced whore, no one of importance.”

Cheeks flaming, Éowyn fled the hall; she was angrier than ever.

 

 

Legolas stood cloaked and hooded beside Arod. Gimli sat on a stump nearby, cleaning his fingernails with the edge of his dagger. Aragorn was speaking quietly with Théoden and Éomer. The Éored was in ranks behind them; they only awaited Éowyn with the stirrup-cup to say farewell. Gimli looked anxiously up at his friend. Legolas had been very quiet when they’d gone to get him up; he’d been awake, huddled in a ball on his bed, and the evidence of a violent stomachache scummed up the chamber pot. All the bed sheets had been pulled off the bed and rolled into a messy heap on the floor; his tunic was clean, though slightly damp, and hanging by the fireplace, which roared with flame. He had spoken very little, only admitting the presence of the whore in his room when pressed by Gandalf; he seemed very shamefaced about it, though Aragorn had gently assured him that under the circumstances they had expected no more from him. At last they were ready to depart, and Gimli was glad; though Gandalf and Aragorn might believe the presence of oak leaves in the subtlety was an accident, Gimli was not so sure. He wanted Legolas out of Edoras as soon as physically possible.

Éowyn finally arrived, looking splendid as usual; she really was quite pretty, thought Gimli, in a pale, cold way. Much like the statuary he’d seen at Rivendell: Look, but don’t touch. Not a patch on the Lady of the Golden Wood, of course! Once a Dwarf had the luck to meet up with an Elven lady, there was no going back, as far as he was concerned.

Éowyn started speaking, and Gimli tried to pay attention to her, but what she was saying didn’t interest him much. He was a little disappointed she wasn’t to go with them, as a Dwarf didn’t understand Théoden’s reluctance to have a female go along. Dwarf women fought every bit as well as Dwarf men – better, in fact, when they were defending their homes – so they were quite naturally considered to be every bit as desirable as warriors as members of the other sex. And from the looks of her, Éowyn could be quite a formidable opponent.

The stirrup-cup was passed, though when she came to Legolas, Gimli saw his friend turn color, and he shook his head. Must still feel sickly, thought Gimli sadly. Éowyn passed him by and gave the cup to Gimli, who drank briefly, wondering at her dark scowl. Gimli looked concerned at the Elf, and edged over to Aragorn to have a word with him about the advisability of letting Legolas ride with them that day; he didn’t seem quite recovered in his opinion.

Seeing her opportunity, Éowyn came back to Legolas, smiling with every appearance of guileless affability; he stiffened and glowered down at her.

“We missed you at breakfast,” she said sweetly.

“I had no desire to eat,” he said, frowning.

Éowyn looked more closely at him. His scarf was wound around his throat, hiding the wounds she’d given him, and his hair, usually braided and pulled back, was loose and hung over his ears. She wondered if she’d marked him last night, and that was why he hid beneath the cloak. His eyes flickered away from her face, and he looked over at Aragorn, who was speaking to Gimli. He very much wished Gimli would come back so he wouldn’t have to face her. Sure enough, Gimli turned back towards them and started to walk over.

“So you are going to battle and glory!” said Éowyn, forcing a smile. “Well, I wish you well, friend Elf! I hope you are better-tempered when we meet again.”

“I might say the same of you,” retorted Legolas. “As for myself, I hope all of your dreams come true, and you die in battle so that I might never have to see you again.”

Éowyn swallowed the rejoinder on her tongue, as the Dwarf walked up and said, “Looks like we’re ready to go! Help me up on this four-footed thing, Legolas.”

Éowyn was about to reprimand Gimli for his disrespectful attitude toward horses when Legolas answered, “His name is Arod, Gimli, and he only consents to bear you because you are my friend.” The Elf turned his back on Éowyn and began assisting Gimli up onto the horse’s back, and Éowyn left abruptly, her mind a whirl of conflicting thoughts.

 

 

**********************************************

 

Éowyn had had eyes only for Aragorn when he and his Dúnedain had returned from Helm’s Deep; she didn’t even see the Elf and the Dwarf at first, as they were riding near the back with two other Elves, and made no attempt to speak to her. She had listened eagerly to Aragorn’s account of the battle, glorying in the mere fact he was blessing her with his attention; out of the corner of her eye she saw Legolas speaking with the twin dark-haired Elves, and she hoped he saw her, speaking so familiarly with the object of her desire. That would show him, she thought, that she was attractive to men, even if Elves didn’t know a good thing when they saw it! She found herself posing, moving her hair so that it flowed down her back, laughing, touching Aragorn’s hand. But the only Elf who noticed her was one of the dark twins; he looked curiously at her, then gave a sardonic smile and turned back to his golden-haired companion. Éowyn became a little irritable, and asked Aragorn what his plans were for the morrow.

 

 

She sat before her fire, head in her hands; her blood ran cold and she felt close to despair. The Paths of the Dead! Aragorn was lost to her then; no mortal man could survive the passageway through Dunharrow. It was useless; she might as well go away to die, because she couldn’t have the one she wanted. She wouldn’t be allowed to fight, or even to ride with her people; she’d have to sit like a paralyzed bird while the hunting dogs drew ever nearer, knowing immobility led to discovery, and flight to instant death.

No mortal man . . . Éowyn stood up, wrapping a thick cloak about her, and left her room. The guesthouses were smaller here in Dunharrow, and all of the companions would be sleeping together. She had tried to speak to him before he retired, and had gotten only riddles; though he had spoken kindly to her, she knew he did not want her with him. That hurt her, and made her angry too; she caught herself wondering what it would be like to have a man love her who believed she could do as she wished.

She paced back and forth in front of the guesthouses for a while, irresolute and confused; after an hour a white glimmer caught her attention from the corner of her eye, and she turned toward it.

The Elf was standing watching her; he was clad in pale clothes, which looked white in the moonlight. His long hair was colorless and his eyes were hooded. He looked slender and strong, untouched by the battle; even standing so still he emanated a glowing white light and an ethereal grace. Éowyn hated him for being so beautiful. Something that strange and inhuman ought to be ugly, like Orcs were ugly.

He seemed to hesitate, then walked toward her purposefully, though his fists were still clenched.

“My lady,” he said, voice stiff and unfriendly, and he bowed.

“Friend Elf,” she said sarcastically, curtseying back. “How disappointed you must be that war has not yet claimed my life.”

“I’ve changed my mind,” he said; “I think it will be more satisfying to watch you grow old and die while I look on, unchanging.”

Éowyn’s hands closed into fists. “Don’t push me too hard,” she warned him; “I’m in no mood for your insults.”

“Why?” asked Legolas, smiling slightly. “Is it because we ride to the Paths of the Dead, or because Aragorn told you that you couldn’t come with us?” When Éowyn only ground her teeth together in fury, he laughed softly and said, “I told you, didn’t I? I told you he wouldn’t choose you. And now he’s riding with the two who will be his brothers-in-law, Elladan and Elrohir, the sons of Elrond. He has chosen his side, and you aren’t on it!”

“Be quiet!” she shouted at him, arms trembling. “Quiet! I won’t hear it from you, I won’t!” And she turned and ran back to her house, hearing only his mocking laughter behind her.

 

It seemed as though a year had passed, though in truth it had only been a few days.

Legolas sat with Gimli and the two Hobbits, chatting merrily; even knowing Éowyn lay wounded in a room down the hall could not quench his high spirits. Now he knew what Galadriel had meant, when she’d warned him not to listen to the sea gulls. The longing pulled at him, filled him with a bittersweet joy. And knowing Minas Tirith was safe, at least for now, knowing Frodo and Sam were still hidden, knowing his two beloved Halflings had weathered the storm poured more happiness into him than he could hold, and the cup of his heart bubbled over. The Ring would be destroyed; Aragorn would claim the kingship; and he and Gimli could go home: All would be well, he was sure of it. And at the end of his friends’ days he would build a ship, and sail it down the River and out to the Sea, and then . . . oh, then! He laughed for pure joy, and Gimli and the Hobbits laughed along with him, though they didn’t know why; no one could restrain their mirth when they heard Legolas’ laughter; it had the sweet, contagious quality of a baby’s giggle.

Gimli rejoiced to see Legolas so hale. His pale cheeks were touched with roses, his eyes sparkled in the sunshine, and his skin glowed against his dark clothing; his hair, which he’d left carelessly hanging about his eyes since they’d gone to Helm’s Deep, was finally braided neatly back from his forehead, and Gimli could see the translucent shells of his ears again. And his smile! How Gimli had missed his smile! But for now the grim days were past, and they could laugh again together, and Gimli could amuse himself with the mental image of his father, when he would explain to him that he’d made friends with the Elven King’s son. He pictured a bristling beard, blood-suffused cheeks, gritted yellow teeth, hissing breath, hopping up and down in fury – Gimli almost laughed to think of it. And what would Thranduil think? Legolas had assured him his father would be taken aback but not angry; Gimli hoped his friend was right, for he had no desire to spend any time in the dungeons of Mirkwood.

Éowyn could hear their laughter floating down the hall. She recognized Meriadoc’s cheerful voice, and the piping answer of his small companion; she heard the loud guffaws from the Dwarf, but above all she heard the Elf, his voice as a background of sweetly chiming bells to all of their voices; merry, blithe, uncaring, unscathed. She remembered with bitterness his words to her: I think it will be more satisfying to watch you grow old and die while I look on, unchanging. Unchanging . . . Now she lay, cheated of her desires once more; she could not have Aragorn, she could not lose her virginity, she could not even die cleanly in battle. She had failed, failed at everything. Nothing, no man, no circumstance would ever lift her up; now she could only hope for death to come lately to her, when all others had been destroyed. Her uncle was dead; her brother would be king; and she would be left behind again: to be killed upon the ramparts of a foreign city if Aragorn failed, or to die a lonely spinster should he succeed. There was nothing left for her at all.


	5. 5

Legolas did not often come to Osgiliath, much to Faramir’s disappointment, so Faramir would make excuses to go to Doro Lanthiron and visit his friend himself. He would always ask Éowyn to join him, but after that first visit she never went back, smilingly claiming she would rather see to the stables, and that someone had to watch the house while her husband was away. At first Faramir dismissed it as a woman’s reluctance to leave her freshly-feathered nest, but after two years had passed he started to wonder why Éowyn did not share his fascination for their Elven neighbors. Perhaps she could not see in them what he did: Their lighthearted jests, careless caresses, beautiful voices and faces, their flowing hair, and the peace that stepping into their dwelling place seemed to engender. All Faramir had to do was to cross the hidden boundaries from his fiefdom in Ithilien, and enter Legolas’ territory, and a feeling of tranquility would wash over him; he always returned from these visits filled with serenity and quiet, humming their songs over to himself so he wouldn’t forget them.

This always seemed to vex Éowyn. Most of the time she seemed perfectly content to live with him in harmony; very little disturbed their domestic felicity, and they ruled Emyn Arnen together, one in heart and mind. She was good at running a kingdom, even a small one; perhaps all the pressure and responsibility Théoden had heaped upon his niece had been for the good, because there was very little administratively she could not do. Faramir was proud and happy to have such a wife. Brave as a warrior, shrewd as a lord, yet bashful and kittenish in the bedchamber – ah yes, his marriage was almost perfect. But when he would return from his visits to Doro Lanthiron, she seemed short with him, and tended to lose her temper more easily, and Faramir could do nothing worse in Éowyn’s eyes than to hum, whistle, or sing an Elven song he’d heard in Legolas’ talan.

Most executive discussion between Osgiliath and Doro Lanthiron could easily be made in the forest, away from Faramir’s capital, but on occasion his advisors would press upon him the need for the Elven lord himself to be present at the meetings, and Legolas would be summoned to the city of Men. He would usually come accompanied by a small group of Elves of both sexes and of indeterminate function; they were dressed as soldiers, acted as friends, and performed as musicians and dancers after the conferences were over. Éowyn seemed to resent that too, and would complain to Faramir in their chambers at night that discipline amongst Legolas’ people was extremely lax, and it was a disgrace to have their closest allies so incompetently arranged. Faramir tried to explain on several occasions that Elves had no need for rank and file, as did Men, but it only irritated her more that he disagreed with her, so he gave up and let her criticize. He kept reminding herself that she was as yet very young; surely, he thought, with age would come increased wisdom regarding their immortal neighbors.

Legolas was indeed in Osgiliath at that time, for an assembly of all the lords of the various small fiefdoms in and around North Ithilien; they were discussing the grape and olive harvests, which affected the Elves of Doro Lanthiron greatly, as the vineyards and orchards were tended and cared for by them. There had been some indignation on the parts of the leaders of the mortal companies that such a significant cut of the profits should go to the Elves just for pruning and watering, but the increase in production since Legolas’ people had moved there was so indicative of their influence over the green and growing things that Faramir felt the percentage was justified. They had finished their discussions, and most of the other lords and vassals had started to depart, and Faramir roamed the halls in search of his golden friend, hoping to convince him to stay awhile and visit. Perhaps, thought Faramir, if Éowyn spent just a little time with Legolas, she would grow to love him, too.

Voices echoed down the hallway and around the corner to him, and he recognized them as Éowyn’s and Legolas’. He smiled to himself, thinking, “Speak of Mandos and you see his doors!” when it occurred to him that the conversation they were having was not being conducted on very friendly lines. He froze and listened.

“There’s no use in pretending to deny it,” said Éowyn, voice laced with insult; “You’re afraid, admit it to me! You’re afraid of me!”

“I, afraid of you?” laughed Legolas, filled with scorn. “Then why is it you never accompany Faramir to my home? Are you afraid, afraid of what you might see there?”

“What would I see?” demanded Éowyn, scoffing. “Just a group of Elves living in trees; that’s all it is. It’s not worth the trip.”

“I think you’re afraid, my lady; you’re afraid I might have found better company.”

“Better company than whom, friend Elf?” she demanded, but the tremble in her voice bespoke her unease.

“Better company than you,” he retorted hotly, “Though to be truthful it wouldn’t be difficult; I could share my bed with a badger and not be bitten as often.”

“Pig!” she hissed; Faramir, frozen with horror, heard her draw her sword with a steely scrape. There was an answering whisper of metal; Faramir could almost envision them, facing each other, swords drawn. “If you were not afraid of me, you would eat the food prepared for you in the kitchens, and not skulk out of doors to find your own!”

“I do not fear you, but I do not trust you, either,” answered Legolas. “I would sooner eat in a dung-heap than risk anything you prepared for me. You’re a snake, small but poisonous; there’s no sense in my getting stung by you again.”

“I don’t need you now!” replied Éowyn angrily; “Why would I want you again, after that last time? You are disgusting; I don’t know why I touched you in the first place!”

“It was not out of desire for me, that is certain!” snarled Legolas, voice rising angrily. “All you wanted was power; power and an end to your maidenhood, and I hate you – I hate you for it!”

There was the ring of steel striking steel; they clanged back and forth for a moment, then they broke away, Éowyn breathing hard. “Give in to me,” she panted angrily, “or I’ll call the guards down on your head and tell them you’re trying to assassinate me.”

“Trying that old ruse again, are you?” Legolas laughed mirthlessly. “Why not take me yourself? You’re growing old and fat, White Lady of Rohan; just a few blows with me and you’re puffing like a bellows.”

Éowyn gave a scream of anger and the sounds of swords striking increased in volume and frequency. Faramir thought perhaps he ought to intervene, if only he could get his feet unstuck from the stone parquet. There was a screeching sound of metal sliding down metal, and Éowyn’s voice, short of breath and straining, grunted, “Do you remember what I did to you, Elf? Do you remember how I made you scream? I know what you like!”

“And I know what you hate!” answered Legolas; there was a lunging noise and the scrape of swords together, then more clangs and clatters as they continued to fight. Then there were the cries of other voices; a couple of servants had come across them in the hall, and were calling out in alarm that their lady was in danger. Faramir coaxed his lifeless limbs to being again and rounded the corner.

Éowyn and Legolas were fighting, that was certain, but Éowyn looked to be slowing down. She couldn’t keep up with the Elf’s dancing footsteps; he swung and she parried clumsily, again and again. Faramir saw in an instant that Legolas was only toying with her – he’d had several opportunities to strike her down, when she couldn’t get her guard back up in time, yet instead of killing her he’d whip his broadsword toward her as easily and gracefully as though it were nothing more than a light rapier; already Éowyn’s ears were nicked and her throat scratched and bleeding from the tip of his hand-and-a-half.

“Legolas!” cried Faramir, horrified, seeing the desperate murder in his wife’s eyes; “Éowyn! Stop at once!”

“I’m only defending myself, Faramir,” replied Legolas, not looking at him; Éowyn met Faramir’s eye, sword in mid-swing, and Legolas batted it aside and flicked the tip of his sword across her cheek, drawing a string of blood. Éowyn cursed in her own tongue and swung at him again. “Don’t you ever spar with her, my friend? You should; she’s really out of practice.” Éowyn thrust at him furiously, but he parried her and put a small gouge in her left ear. “Or maybe it’s only because you’re getting old, my lady,” said Legolas cruelly, smiling; “Your breasts are drooping, your buttocks sagging, there are wrinkles around your eyes – “ With each phrase Éowyn desperately tried to hack at him, but he swatted her sword aside as though it were nothing but a mayfly.

“Legolas, enough of this! Stop!” begged Faramir.

“Tell her to stop first,” insisted Legolas. “She’ll cut me down if I lower my sword.”

“Éowyn,” entreated Faramir to his wife, who looked at him with wild eyes, hair sweaty and strewn about her shoulders. “I beseech you, put down your sword!”

“Never!” she screeched, swinging again, but at that point two more protagonists ran down the hall, and she faltered. King Elessar and Queen Undómiel, hearing the sounds of combat, and thinking Faramir besieged, stopped aghast at the sight, and Éowyn, with a last despondent cry, turned her sword to stab Legolas.

He didn’t parry her, but dodged the sword instead, stepping in and delivering a wicked slice to her right shoulder. She yelped in pain and dropped her sword to the stone floor, where it clattered at Aragorn’s feet.

“All right,” announced Legolas, setting the point of his sword on the floor and resting his hands on the pommel. “I’ll stop now.”

“Éowyn!” exclaimed Faramir, taking his wife into his arms. She was sobbing, angry and in pain, and fought him, biting her lip and trying to push him away. Faramir caught her close, holding her still, and looked at his friend. The Elf was regarding her with revulsion, his finely drawn brows scowling over his bright eyes; his upper lip gleamed with sweat, and there seemed to Faramir about him a feeling of ignominy mixed with hatred.

“What is all this?” demanded Aragorn, looking from Legolas, stiff and furious, to the thrashing and incoherent Éowyn, bleeding in her husband’s embrace. “What is going on?”

“I knew you two didn’t like each other,” said Arwen, in the dry and humorous voice her subjects loved, “but I had no idea you wanted to kill each other.”

“I don’t want to kill her,” protested Legolas, blinking innocently at her. “I don’t have to; she’s going to die eventually, anyway.”

“Well, you don’t have to hurry her along,” she chided him, and then turned to Éowyn, who hid her face in Faramir’s epaulette. “Will you tell me what’s going on, then, child? No? Faramir, do you know what started this?”

Faramir’s mind suddenly went back to what he’d heard, and something clicked then that hadn’t before. He looked at Legolas in horror.

Legolas read his look, and turned very pale, biting his lip. Éowyn, seeing the secret was out, broke violently away from her husband and fled down the hallway. “Go after her,” said Aragorn to the two servants. “Go! See that she does no harm to herself. Hurry!” The two servants ran off after Éowyn, and the two Elves and two Men stood alone in the hall. Arwen looked thoughtfully at Faramir, who stared at Legolas as though he’d been betrayed, and at Legolas, who gazed mortified at his pommel. She picked up Éowyn’s sword and held it, hilt out, to her husband, who took it absently, still looking at his two friends.

“It was Éowyn who put the oak leaves in the subtlety, wasn’t it, Legolas?” asked Aragorn in a quiet voice.

Legolas shut his eyes tight, and pressed his lips together to keep them from trembling. “Yes,” he whispered.

“Éowyn, whom Gandalf saw leaving your room at the third watch.”

Legolas kept his eyes closed; he did not want to see Faramir’s face. “Yes.”

“I see,” said Aragorn, and he sighed and was silent.

Arwen turned to Legolas and spoke to him gently in her own tongue. He opened his eyes and replied, flushing uncomfortably. She shook her head, looking angry.

“She tore at his ears,” she said to Faramir and Aragorn, her indignation making her go pale. “Tore them so hard he had to hide them until they healed.”

There was a loud clatter. Legolas had let go of his sword and turned abruptly to the window, setting his back to them and leaning his palms on the sill. Faramir, uncomprehending, said, “His ears?”

“A strong sexual stimulus,” explained Aragorn, taking Arwen’s hand gently. “Not many people know of this. But if you see Elves greeting each other, you’ll notice they don’t embrace; they touch foreheads or cheeks, but never ears. It produces a rather strong reaction.” He smiled a little at Arwen, who turned pink. “And the combination of oak leaves and honey acts as a love philter; get enough of it into an Elf and you may as well prepare yourself for a long night.”

Faramir looked appalled at Legolas. “Éowyn?” he said. “My Éowyn did this?”

“It was before you even met,” said Legolas, speaking towards the window. His shoulders were shaking, and his voice sounded ragged and uneven. “One night in Rohan. That is all.” He hesitated, then added in a voice so quiet they could hardly hear him: “She has held it over me ever since.”

“But – but – you couldn’t have,” said Faramir, lighting up with hope. “That would be impossible. You couldn’t have lain with her. Our first night together, our bridal night, she was a virgin, I swear it to you – I felt it; there was even blood on our sheets!”

“I healed her,” said Legolas, to the window. “I closed up her maidenhead again.”

Aragorn blinked. “You can do that?” he asked in surprise.

“It’s a rather simple spell,” said Arwen easily; at her husband’s shocked look she colored a little, and explained quickly, “Well, we do live an awfully long time, you know.”

Faramir’s hope faded. He went up to Legolas and put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. Legolas flinched, but Faramir did not withdraw his hand; he squeezed his shoulder comfortingly. “I don’t blame you, my friend,” he said gently. “She is very beautiful, and any man would have been proud to have deflowered her. And she came to you willingly – it’s not as though you raped her.”

Legolas whirled around, his eyes blazing. He threw Faramir’s hand off his shoulder and shouted, “I didn’t want her! I didn’t want her! I still do not want her! The very thought of lying with her revolts me – “ His body convulsed once, then he fled from them, retching as he sped down the hallway to his rooms.


	6. 6

Aragorn and Arwen sat side by side on the low couch in the guest chamber. Legolas was before them, curled up into a quivering ball on the bed. His long arms were folded up over his head and his face pressed between his knees. Arwen was too angry to speak, but Aragorn with a gentle voice was questioning his friend.

“She came to you with soup. There was potion in the soup?”

“Yes,” came Legolas’ muffled reply.

“And a pot of more potion as well?”

“Yes.”

“She held the knife to your throat and made you eat some.”

Legolas’ breath hitched into a hiccoughing sob and he nodded, long yellow hair dancing around his ankles.

“You couldn’t fight her? You’d had too much of the philter?”

“Yes.”

“She tore at your ears to make you respond to her?”

“Yes.”

Arwen covered her face with her hands.

“How much did she make you eat?”

“All of it,” came his answer in a small, shaking voice.

“All of it? How much was it?”

“I’m not sure,” Legolas said, raising his head. His face was blotched and tear-streaked; he wiped his cheeks with the heel of his hand. “A pint, maybe more.”

“A pint!” Aragorn was aghast; Arwen made a gagging sound and turned her head away, closing her eyes. “Eru! She could have killed you!”

Legolas hid his face again. “I wish she had.”

“No wonder you were so ill! And when you hid yourself under your hood, you were hiding the marks she left on your ears and neck; is that it? You weren’t covering yourself to put the men of Rohan at ease, like you told me?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know. I didn’t want anyone to find out.”

Aragorn sighed and rubbed his hand over his face. Arwen turned back to them and gave her husband a searching look. “She ought to be punished,” she said. “That was a horrible thing to do to one of the Eldar.”

Aragorn glanced uneasily at Legolas, who had pulled himself into a tighter ball and was rocking back and forth, hair swinging. “I don’t know, my love,” he said apprehensively. “Such a thing would have to be done publicly, and I don’t think the people would understand; they don’t know enough about the Elves to begin with, and it would lead to a lot of resentment between the races.”

“There’s plenty of that already,” sighed Arwen.

“Please, don’t make it public,” begged Legolas, raising his mottled face to them. “I don’t want anyone else to know. Having you know is bad enough. Having Faramir know is worse,” he added with a groan, fresh tears rolling down his cheeks. “We are such friends. He’ll never act the same towards me again. I know he doesn’t understand that I had no choice.”

“Neither of them fully understand, I think,” said Aragorn, pulling at his lower lip and thinking. “Not even Éowyn. I don’t think she has any idea how much she hurt you. She feels guilt, I’m sure, but she’s so proud she doesn’t want to admit her responsibility, even to herself. Having it out in the open, especially having Faramir know, is a great blow to her.”

“Good,” said Arwen, voice flat. “It’s a shame we can’t punish her further.”

“I’m not sure what we’d do, anyway,” said Aragorn. “Legolas, I know you’ve probably harbored thoughts of revenge against her these past three years; is there anything we could do – within reason, within the privacy of the five of us – that would ameliorate this situation? You and your people will be living in Doro Lanthiron for many years, and Éowyn will almost always be at Osgiliath. We can’t banish her; that would cause too much talk, and Faramir is needed here. What can we do for you, Legolas? What can we do to make it better?”

“Nothing, I think,” said Legolas, taking a quivering breath and sitting up a little. He ran his shaking hands through the golden mass of his hair and sat back against the headboard, looking blankly out the window. “There is no revenge I could take. I can think of nothing, nothing that would make me feel vindicated, nothing that would show her how appallingly she has treated me.”

Arwen turned thoughtfully to her husband. “I’m not sure,” she said, “that we need seek revenge or punishment upon Éowyn at all. Faramir knows what she’s done, and he is sufficiently dismayed; his good opinion of his wife means a great deal to Éowyn, and this will be a terrible blow. For three years Faramir has done nothing but boast about her perfections, and she’s lapped it up like a cat drinks cream. You could almost hear her purring. Now Faramir has seen a terrible flaw, and he may forgive her, but he will never forget; that will always be between them now. It’s taken her down from the pedestal he’s erected for her. You mentioned her pride,” she explained to Aragorn, who looked a little puzzled. “She’s very proud of her nobility, her courage, her flawlessness, her accomplishments. The approbation of her subjects and her husband are of paramount importance to her. This takes her down a few notches; that will be unbearable for her.”

“Maybe you’re right,” said Aragorn. “I hope you are. I can think of nothing else that would chastise her; she is too stubborn.”

“She’ll only resent me further,” said Legolas wearily. “My very presence is a rebuke. This will only make things worse. She doesn’t see that her actions were wrong.”

The three friends were silent, each ruminating the problem. A cool breeze stirred the curtains at the window, and a few flaxen strands of Legolas’ hair were teased up around his head, dancing languidly about his face. It was the first fall-like day they had had after the warm summer; farmers were already starting to break up their fields with ploughs to let them lie fallow, and the leaves were turning golden and red and orange, hanging heavy like warm velvet upon the tree branches. Suddenly, to the surprise of her two companions, Arwen gave a chuckle.

“Legolas,” she said, leaning across the bed and taking his hand. “Are you still planning to have a Spring Festival in Doro Lanthiron next year?”

“Yes, of course,” said Legolas blankly. “At Echuir, when the moon is full. You and Aragorn are invited again, if you’d like.”

Aragorn ducked his head and smiled a little sheepishly. The Spring Festival for the Wood-Elves was indeed a stimulating experience, and he let memories of his last encounter there flit across his mind. He found his eyes fixed upon the graceful tip of his wife’s pointed ear, and a little tremor ran through him at the thought of the delights he’d experienced.

“Oh, we went last year,” smiled Arwen, winking at Aragorn, whose face fell. “I think it’s Faramir and Éowyn’s turn this year.”

Aragorn looked perplexed, and Legolas a little angry. But Arwen laid a finger on the Elf’s lips, silencing his protest, and added, “And I think you, as Lord of Doro Lanthiron, should initiate the Cauldron Ritual to the southern realm.”

Legolas sat back, shocked. He stared at Arwen as though she’d suggested he squat on the bed and lay an egg. Curious, Aragorn asked, “What is the Cauldron Ritual?”

“She doesn’t know what she’s done,” Arwen said to Legolas, ignoring Aragorn. “Think! This would show her. Then she would know, then she would realize what she did to you; she would see how wrong it was. Her sorrow would be better than revenge.”

“If she is even capable of sorrow,” said Legolas bitterly.

“You can but try,” said Arwen. “And the invitation will seem to her a munificent and forgiving gesture. Faramir will force her to accept graciously, despite her exasperation. It will be twisting screws into her stomach; she’ll hate it.”

Legolas pursed his lips thoughtfully. “That’s reason enough, really,” he admitted. The ghost of a smile played about his mouth. “It will be a long, cold winter,” he mused, looking out the window at the blue sky. “My people will be looking forward to the Festival. The Cauldron Ritual would be a pleasant surprise for them.”

“Your people deserve a pleasant surprise,” smiled Arwen. “And think how eye-opening it will be for the Lord and Lady of Emyn Arnen.”

“Eye-opening!” Legolas laughed, a breathy sound of relief. He scrubbed his palms over his face, rubbing his reddened eyes. “Very well, Undómiel, I’ll do this. I’m not sure if it will accomplish what you hope, but it’ll be worth it, anyway, to shock Faramir – or to arouse him,” he added, eyes twinkling.

“Good!” Arwen embraced him warmly. “Wash your face, then, and come down to the banquet hall. Put on a good show for them. And invite them publicly, so she cannot refuse; it would seem boorish, and we all know how she likes to look gracious before the assembly.”

“I will,” said Legolas, climbing off the bed. He stood before the polished glass mirror of the wardrobe, tugging at his rumpled tunic contemplatively. “Silver, I think,” he murmured, and started untying the lacings.

Arwen led her husband from the room, shutting the door softly behind them. Aragorn was still baffled. “What is the Cauldron Ritual?” he asked again. Arwen didn’t answer him, but she blushed a little, and gave her husband a faintly naughty look that set his pulse racing.


	7. 7

Éowyn hated being there. It was an affront to her that she even had to suffer his presence, much less be seated upon a sawn stump in her condition. The Elves had been solicitous, even friendly, giving her cushions and warm glasses of mead, but she thought that if they caressed her swollen belly once more with their long white fingers she was going to stab one of them. Faramir had taken her knife away, unfortunately; maybe she could just bite them, instead.

Legolas’ cordial invitation to them to join his people in their Spring Festival had been like a slap in the face. What had been worse was Faramir’s delighted acceptance of it; when Éowyn had protested later, he’d firmly told her that Legolas had obviously decided to bury the hatchet and express his forgiveness of her, and if she was going to act at all like a noble lady she’d do the same, and be gratefully courteous. Éowyn flinched at the memory. His disappointment in her had been palpable, humiliating, debasing; he’d said things that made her squirm so uncomfortably she blushed to even think of it. He’d never said the word rape, thank Eru; Éowyn knew it would look that way to him, though she told herself it had not gone that far (A woman raping a man? Ridiculous!). But the hurt and disillusioned look on her beloved’s face had driven her mad with mortification and shame.

She was glad Arwen and Aragorn were not there. She had long since ceased to look upon Aragorn in a romantic fashion, but she still did not like him to see her so distended and ungainly, and Arwen, since the revelation of her acts upon Legolas, had been cold and unfriendly to her. She supposed that was to be expected; Arwen and Legolas were both Elves, after all, and it was predictable that she would take his part over hers.

She shifted uncomfortably upon the cushions and tried to smooth the yellow fabric of her dress over her stomach. It was richly embroidered with green leaves and white flowers, and the collar was a frothy fluff of the finest lace; she thought to herself that if she had to face Legolas and his people in this condition she might as well look as rich and stately as possible. Not that Legolas had even seemed to notice; he’d greeted her in a friendly fashion, smiling guilelessly, and introduced them to some of his other visitors: March-wardens from Lórien, tall and broad-shouldered, with unpronounceable names, that couldn’t even speak Westron properly.

The feast had been ample, varied and prolonged; Éowyn was used to the richer, heavier foods of her people and had been dissatisfied with the dishes of white bread and lean meats and fruit, but Faramir had enjoyed everything, sampling all the different types of savories and roasts and ragouts, drinking the Elves’ strong purple-red wine and talking animatedly with his hosts, many of whom were friends from previous visits. Legolas had flitted from one grouping to another, resplendent in a white doublet and hose, his golden head crowned with a circlet of silver leaves that flashed in the firelight, its pale gems sparkling. He seemed almost to glow, infusing the air about him with a clear unwavering light, and his contagious laughter pealed throughout the clearing as he spoke.

Then, when the plates and silver had been collected, the musicians came out, and Faramir rubbed his hands together delightedly, listening to them play. Most of the Elves got up to dance, weaving in and out in the intricate patterns, their feet flickering upon the leaves, seeming not even to touch the ground. And Legolas danced too, unbound by convention, his feet light and nimble, swinging his partners around with his pale hair spread out behind him like a gleaming fan. One female in particular seemed his especial favorite, a tawny-haired Elf woman in a green dress, with whom he danced three times, smiling into her dark grey eyes. Éowyn scowled at him, resentful that every woman – indeed, every man – in the clearing was far lovelier than she. She put a self-conscious hand on her stomach. That was probably why Legolas had invited them; he was rubbing it into her face that the Elven women’s beauty was far superior to her own.

Faramir interrupted her bitter thoughts by laying a hand on her arm and asking excitedly, “Éowyn, do you want to dance?” She started; the musicians had changed the tune to a song written by a minstrel from Gondor, and the dance that accompanied it would be one she knew. She shook her head, trying to smile politely.

“No, I’m too tired,” she lied, spreading her fingers on her belly. Faramir smiled and put his hand over hers; he opened his mouth to speak, but before he could say anything a dark-haired Elf woman touched Faramir on the shoulder and said, in a rich, dulcet voice, “My Lord Faramir, if your wife is willing, would you like to dance this turn with me?”

Faramir looked up at her in surprise and delight; Éowyn’s stomach twisted so wrenchingly she almost felt sick. But it would look selfish to deny Faramir this pleasure, so she forced her voice into an agreeable tone and said, “Please, my love, do! It will be enchanting for me to just watch you.”

The Elf woman seemed satisfied, and took Faramir’s hand, leading him out into the clearing. Gnashing her teeth, Éowyn watched her husband take the woman in his arms. She was dark, like Arwen, with the radiant skin and eyes characteristic of the Elven people; her bare arms were long and slender, and girt with silver bands, and about her pale throat was a collar set with abalone. When they danced she seemed to float alongside Faramir, mocking his wife with her elegance and splendor.

Éowyn looked away, and spied Legolas across the clearing from her; he was speaking to some of the serving Elves, animated and eager, his slim white hands weaving in front of his face. The servants were smiling and nodding, their shining hair gleaming in the firelight, and when Legolas playfully shooed them away, they vanished up into the trees. In a few moments, sparkling lanterns began to be lit up in the branches of the circle, twinkling down upon the heads of the dancers, and many of the Elves laughed and gestured upward in delight. Faramir was gazing up at the lanterns, his face wreathed in smiles, and his partner clapped her hands gleefully. When the lanterns were all lit, and illuminated the branches of the trees like stars, the song wound down, and Legolas stepped into the middle of the circle, smiling. All the dancers stopped and stepped back away from him.

He stood between the two great fire pits, his white clothing glowing yellow-orange in the light. When he moved his head, sparkles flashed from his circlet and strands of his golden hair caught the light. Then he raised his arms out straight, palms upward, and spoke one word clearly into the air. He clapped his hands together once above his head, and the fires went out.

Éowyn bit back a cry of fear. She hadn’t known the Elf had such magic in him; it was intimidating even to think of his reweaving her hymen, as he’d done so long ago. But now the sudden darkness made the swinging lanterns glitter like stars over the heads of the revelers; the Elf Lord was edged in silver and moonlight, the gems on his doublet glinting. He gestured to his people, and they all sat on the ground around him, looking up at him. Faramir returned to Éowyn and sat beside her, taking her hand.

Two servants came forward, bearing a huge, steaming silver cauldron on a pole between them, setting it at Legolas’ feet. All of the Elves sat up very straight and looked alert; some gave small murmurs of excitement. Legolas spoke and clapped his hands again, and a green fire awoke beneath the cauldron; the contents began to seethe, and the smell of mulled wine filled the clearing. He reached out his left hand, and a servant put a small bowl into it; he reached out his right hand, and another servant gave him a little phial filled with green powder. Éowyn looked around at the Elves. They all looked very agitated and pleased, and some were trembling with anticipation.

Legolas poured the powder into the bowl and handed the phial back to the servant, who took it with shaking hands, shining eyes fixed upon the bowl. Legolas took a knife and stirred the concoction together carefully, making sure to scrape the sides so it was thoroughly mixed. When he lifted the knife from the bowl and tapped it on the side, Éowyn realized it was filled with honey.

Her breath caught in her throat. The green powder must be ground oak leaves; he was preparing the philter!

Legolas held the bowl over the top of the cauldron and tipped it on its side. The glutinous, golden mass came sliding out into the bubbling wine, sheeting down like translucent sunshine; when it slowed to a stringy trickle Legolas put his knife in the bowl and scraped all of it out. He carefully wiped the sides of his knife on the edge of the cauldron, handed it to his servant, and taking up a long, elegantly curved ladle began to stir the liquid in the cauldron.

The Elves were hardly breathing, unblinking eyes fixed upon the Lord of Doro Lanthiron. Even the march-wardens of Lórien were leaning forward eagerly, hands moving restlessly in their cloaks. The only sound was the bubbling, gurgling noise of the wine as it boiled and churned. After a few moments Legolas stopped stirring and raised his eyes to the breathless crowd around him, his face tense with suppressed excitement. He held out his left hand to his servant, who gave him a crystal flagon, cut so that it sparkled like a diamond in the dim light. Legolas held it up and said in a clear voice,

“Who will fill my cup for me?”

They were obviously words of ritual, for he repeated them in Sindarin, and the crowd stirred, eyes searching. Then an Elf woman rose to her feet. Éowyn saw it was the same one Legolas had danced with before, the one with the honey-colored hair in the green dress. It must have been made of some thin, clinging fabric, because in the moonlight and under the twinkling lights of the lanterns it adhered to her so closely Éowyn could see her nipples beneath the gossamer cloth. She stepped over her companions and approached the cauldron, facing Legolas with a queer smile.

“I will fill your cup for you, my lord,” she said in a velvety voice. Legolas held out the cup to her, and she took the ladle, filled it with hot wine, and poured it into the flagon to the brim.

Legolas smiled at her. “Who will help me drink from the cup?” he asked, again in both Westron and Sindarin.

“I will help you drink from the cup, my lord,” the woman responded, wrapping the fingers of one hand around the goblet, and entwining the fingers of her other hand in the diaphanous hair at the back of his head. She guided the flagon to his lips, and he drank deeply, his eyes closed, until half of the wine was gone. She took the goblet from his mouth and waited. Legolas stood still for a moment, eyes shut and lips parted; then his tongue flicked out to catch a stray drop of wine upon them, and he shuddered. One of the Elves across the clearing gave a low whimper, and Legolas smiled again and opened his eyes, gazing at his partner.

“Who will drain my cup for me?” he asked in both languages, his voice unsteady.

“I will drain your cup for you, my lord,” the woman whispered, taking the cup in both hands. Legolas put one hand over hers and slid his other hand into her hair, tipping the flagon to her mouth. She emptied the goblet in one draught, head tilted back, leaning into Legolas’ hand. When he took it from her mouth, she too quivered, and opening her eyes leaned into his chest.

Their lips touched lightly, hands entwined in each other’s hair; the silence was so deep Éowyn could hear the sound of their mouths meeting and parting. They kissed for a few moments, tenderly and slowly, hands stroking faces and throats, and all the Elves sat motionless, watching them.

Then Legolas raised a languorous hand to the side of her head, and with two fingers very lightly brushed the tip of her ear.

She jolted in his arms and gave a great gasp, and several of the Elves in the clearing groaned or whispered; Éowyn glanced around and saw them looking at each other, searching each other out; some had already reached for a partner beside them and were embracing or kissing. Then someone rose behind her and came forward to the cauldron, her skirts swishing on the grass; she had silvery hair and wore a blue gown. She took the ladle and her own goblet and turned to face the rest of the crowd.

“Who will fill my cup for me?” she asked.

A deep-chested Elf with dark blond hair rose immediately across from her; it was one of the march-wardens. “I will fill your cup for you, Fíriel,” he said, taking the ladle and filling the goblet. She gazed up at him with gleaming eyes, a smile on her lips.

“Who will help me drink from the cup?” she asked him shakily.

“I will help you drink from the cup, Fíriel,” he answered, smiling; he wound his hand in her hair and helped her drink.

When she had swallowed her body gave a great quake; her knees buckled, and the march-warden supported her, lowering her gently to the earth. She took a deep breath and moaned: “Who – who will – drain my cup – for me?” she gasped, clutching at his grey cloak.

The march-warden knelt beside her and wrapped his hands about hers, which were still grasping the cup. He whispered in Sindarin, but Éowyn could tell what he’d said, for she brought the cup to his lips and he drank. By the time he had drained the cup his hands were quivering; he set it impatiently aside and claimed her mouth with his own.

Éowyn tried to look away, but then her eyes fell upon Legolas and his partner; he had leaned her up against a convenient tree and was feasting on the pale column of her throat, and she had unfastened the lacings at the front of his doublet and was sliding it off his shoulders. She watched in incredulity as the woman lay one finger gently upon the edge of his ear, and Legolas arched his back, pulling away from her with a look of ecstasy upon his face; then he dived in again, kissing her more deeply and sliding one hand up her ribcage to cup her breast in his palm.

Another Elf had gone up to the cauldron and started the ritual; he was joined by a laughing Elf woman who embraced him first, then filled his cup for him and brought it to his grinning mouth. “Husband and wife,” Faramir murmured in Éowyn’s ear; she started: She had forgotten he was sitting beside her. She looked over at him; he was watching the couple in the ritual, who could not seem to complete all the steps before beginning to undress each other; by the time she had drained her husband’s goblet he was already suckling upon one of her breasts, pushing the flimsy silk away with impatient fingers. Faramir’s eyes were gleaming, and his lips were turned into a half-smile as he watched them together. After a moment he licked his lower lip and turned to her, ardor in his gaze.

Éowyn’s attention was jerked away by another Elf woman starting the ritual at the cauldron, being joined by Legolas’ dark-haired attaché; Galás, was that his name? She watched in stunned amazement as the quiet, articulate representative dragged his sated partner to the earth and lifted her skirts while she spread her legs apart for him.

The area around the cauldron was becoming crowded with writhing, heaving bodies; it was a mass of ivory skin and lustrous hair, twined limbs and lissome fingers, peppered throughout with groans and cries of pleasure. More Elves came to the cauldron, having to carry the ladle to each other; cups were filled and emptied and cast away, to be groped over by those remaining. At last all pretenses of ritual were thrown aside, and various Elves simply dipped their flagons into the wine, drinking and sharing alike, and running together into the woods, or swarming up into the trees. In fact, many couples dispensed with the philter-infused beverage entirely and began coupling upon the ground as they sat. Everywhere Éowyn looked Elves were caressing, kissing, stroking, fondling, and undressing each other in various stages of ardor, some sighing, some crying out, some even grunting rhythmically. She looked about wildly and heaved herself to her feet, intending to run as far away from this nightmare of copulation as she could. Faramir sprang to his feet beside her, taking her by the arms; he was breathing hard, and there was an amorous light in his eye.

“My love,” he whispered, putting his arms about her waist. “My Éowyn . . . “

He lowered his head to kiss her, but she turned her face away from him and his lips found her cheek instead. Over his shoulder she suddenly saw Legolas and his Elf woman, seated upon the ground together; he was holding her on his lap, and her long colorless legs were wrapped about his naked back. They labored and strove together with a feverish pace, lips fastened together; Éowyn could see the steady pulsing of his stomach muscles against hers. Then his cadence quickened and he buried his face in her dangling hair, thrusting against her, and she dropped her head back in elation, tightening her grip with her thighs about him.

Faramir’s lips were traveling from her cheek to her earlobe, nuzzling into her hair and nipping lightly at her skin; he was breathing fast and his hands started to roam about her back. Éowyn’s eyes were fixed on Legolas; he was lunging up into his partner with abandon, his face hidden in her shoulder, and then she dropped her head down to his ear, took the tip of it in her mouth, and sucked on it gently.

Legolas lurched upward, throwing his head back, eyes wide open to the stars; he cried something in Sindarin that made his partner laugh hoarsely, and he seized her back with a spasmodic jerk. He drew in great, jagged breaths, then lowered his head, pressing his forehead against hers, eyes squeezed shut. She crooned and panted to him softly, running a finger along the outside ridge of his ear, until he had spent himself; he looked mischievously into her eyes and started to pulse inside her again.

Faramir had pulled Éowyn close, kneading her buttocks and laving her throat with his tongue; even with her swollen abdomen in the way she could feel his hardness pressed against her thigh. She put her hands on his shoulders, wanting to push him away, but was too distracted by the sight Legolas made, stomach heaving, hands flickering across his partner’s body, hips palpitating against hers. The Elf woman had closed her eyes now, and was leaning back into his hands, an open-mouthed smile on her face, her hair swinging steadily from side to side across her back in time to Legolas’ movements. He was watching her carefully from beneath heavy-lidded eyes, tracking her pleasure, and when she had reached a certain point he took her face in his hands and brought the tips of his fingers over her ears.

It was her turn to cry aloud, though there didn’t seem to be any words; her legs flew apart and scissored madly around him. They heaved together, pressed impossibly close, and she cried out again, and again, and again as Legolas drove into her and stroked the edges of her ears with his fingers.

Faramir pushed up against her leg hard and gave a little moan into her hair; Éowyn wasn’t certain, but she thought perhaps he was reacting to the sound of the Elf woman’s climax. Suddenly she felt physically sick, and she broke away from him, stumbling across the struggling bodies in the clearing, trying to get away. She heard Faramir behind her calling, “Éowyn! Wait!” but she started to run faster, wanting to gain their tent.

She ducked under the flap, grateful no couples had decided to use it in their absence, and threw herself upon the pallet, trying not to sob. Faramir entered a few moments later, panting, and lay down beside her, putting his arms about her and kissing her hungrily. Éowyn pushed him violently away, crying, “Stop! Stop!” until Faramir sat up, looking at her in frustrated amazement.

“What is it?” he asked breathlessly, taking her hand. “I thought you wanted this.”

“Why would you think that?” she demanded angrily.

“Well, you ran to the tent,” he said; “I thought you wanted to do it in privacy. We mortals aren’t as cavalier about lovemaking as the Elves.”

“Oh, the Elves!” she said sarcastically, pushing his hand away from her. “Naturally my husband would want to make love to me after seeing the Elves rutting like sheep in season – there would be no other reason for it, would there!?”

Faramir looked hurt. “I admit, their passion inflamed me,” he said, folding his arms across his chest. “Who would it not? It was a stunning sight.”

“Very stunning,” she snapped, starting to pull the combs from her hair and flinging them into her jewel box. “Just as stunning as that Elf-wench who danced with you – and that trollop Legolas is romping with.”

Faramir sat very still, looking at Éowyn with a faint suggestion of alarm in his eyes. “That ‘Elf-wench,’ as you call her,” he said slowly, “is Golorlië, the wife of Baranil; she is a wise woman skilled in agriculture. I know her well from summits in times past. And the ‘trollop’ Legolas finds so attractive is Hírilcullas, a practiced archer, one of the scouts of Doro Lanthiron.” He looked keenly at her. “It isn’t easy, is it, my love,” he said, his voice gentle, “to be so bloated and ungainly amongst the Eldar, especially when you’re used to being the loveliest in the land. And you are lovely,” he said, taking her restless hand, kissing each of her fingers, and rubbing it between his own. “Your hair ripples down your back like liquid sunlight; your lips are pink as columbines, and your throat is a column of porcelain. I love you, I desire you; I want very much to be with you tonight, to give you pleasure, if I can.”

“Well, you can’t,” she muttered, pulling her hand away from his and turning her back to him. “I am too uncomfortable, and the sight of that indecent display out there has turned my stomach. Unlatch my gown for me. It pinches so.”

Wordlessly Faramir unlatched the back of the gown and helped her out of it. He took up her shift and slid it over her arms and head, concealing her engorged breasts, and set up the bank of cushions and pillows she needed to be comfortable as she slept. After she curled up he too undressed and lay down beside her, spooning around her back and draping his arm over her stomach. They were silent for a moment, and then Éowyn said, in a very small voice, “Faramir!”

“Yes, my love?” said Faramir.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what, my love?” he asked, kissing her hair.

“For denying you your passion. For accusing you of wanting the Elf women. For being – for being fat and droopy and saggy and irritable and – “

She started to cry, and Faramir wrapped his arms around her securely, nestling his head into her hair and kissing her earlobe. “My love, my love, it is nothing,” he soothed her. “This is only a temporary thing; soon our child will be in our arms and you will be yourself again. It is difficult for a woman to carry such a burden, and I wish I could bear it for you, to ease your discomfort.”

Éowyn wept a little while, then fell quiet again. Faramir was still, his breathing slow and even, his hands twitching a little. She whispered again, “Faramir!”

“Mmm,” he said into her hair.

“You are better with weights and measures than I. How much wine would you say was in that cauldron?”

He stirred a little, saying sleepily: “I don’t know; a tonneau, I think, maybe more. Certainly more than a barrel.”

“And the philter he prepared; how much did it look like, a cup?”

“Maybe two cups,” he said. “But not much more.”

“How much philter would there have been in each goblet?”

Faramir paused, trying to calculate it in his drowsy state. “No more than an eighth of a teaspoon, I am certain,” he said at last. “Very little – the merest drop.”

“Oh,” said Éowyn.

“Anything else, my love?” he asked.

“No, Faramir,” she said. “That’s all. Good-night.”

“Good-night, my Éowyn.”

They fell silent again, and Faramir dropped off to sleep. Éowyn stayed awake for a while, telling herself she hadn’t meant to make Legolas so sick, it wasn’t her fault, the book had told her nothing about how much she should give him, she had just been taking precautions. Then the image flashed before her eyes of his two fingers, barely grazing the tip of his partner’s ear, and in contrast to this she saw her own sallow fingers tearing at the skin and pinching and twisting it cruelly. She bit her lip. The book ought to have told her. There had not been enough information. It was not her fault. She was not to blame. There was absolutely nothing to feel guilty about. It wasn’t her fault at all.


	8. 8

Éowyn’s fourth pregnancy did not go well. She was very ill for months, and confined to bed; despite the healers’ best efforts she became wan and thin, her eyes sinking and her limbs weak. Faramir, in a flurry of anxiety, called in Aragorn, who did what he could for her, but he told the concerned Faramir that the first three children had come too quick in succession, and Éowyn’s body was simply wearing out. “I can give her a concoction of herbs in a tonic to lend her strength,” the king told his steward, “but under no circumstances is she to get out of bed, and this must be her last child. She will kill herself with this desire for such a large family.”

“Can you do nothing else?” demanded Faramir, discouraged.

“No,” said Aragorn. “This is no illness; this is the circumstance of a thin rapier sharpened too many times. The metal becomes brittle and if used again may break. Keep her in bed – feed her the tonic and the broth, and try to keep her amused. I will return when it’s her time, to deliver the child myself. I don’t trust any of the midwives to do it now.”

When Aragorn had left, Faramir had sent for Legolas, thinking perhaps among the Elves would be the medicine and magic to reweave her broken body. But the messenger returned alone, saying the Lord of Doro Lanthiron had left to visit Eryn Lasgalen with a great company of his people; there were no healers or midwives among those left behind, and all were needed to see to the olive harvest. So for two months Faramir bullied the healers, sang or read to his wife, forced her to swallow the vile medicines, and sat up at nights, hands clasped before him, gazing apprehensively at her thin face.

Her labor started many weeks too soon, and Faramir sent messengers to the king in a desperate hurry, begging him to come; but within a few hours it was too late. The baby, tiny and malformed, lay limply in her father’s arms, and Éowyn’s grey face was covered with a white sheet. The White Lady of Rohan was dead.

She was laid out in state upon a great marble bier, a cloth of gold covering her and huge golden candlesticks at her head and feet. Faramir, unable to look upon the sight any longer, left the hall and closed the door behind him, seeking the solitude of his quarters.

He caught a wisp of movement from the corner of his eye, and he stopped, amazed; still garbed in traveling clothes, much stained and mud-spattered, stood the Lord of Doro Lanthiron, dripping rainwater upon the stone parquet. His lips were white, and his eyes looked dim. He threw back his hood from his damp hair and rushed up to Faramir, arms wide. The steward fell into his friend’s embrace, weeping.

“Faramir, Faramir!” said Legolas, his voice choked with sorrow. “Forgive me, my dear friend, for I wasn’t here when you needed me.”

“You’re here now, though,” sobbed Faramir, pulling back and embracing Legolas again. “Oh, Legolas, what will I do without her? What will I do?”

Legolas held him for a while, stroking his hair and murmuring comforting words in Sindarin. Then he broke away and wiped Faramir’s face, his own eyes glazed over with tears. “I am so sorry,” he said, and turned a little at a noise behind them; Faramir looked and saw Galás standing uncomfortably in the hallway; he too was marked with much travel and looked a little disheveled. “Galás has come with me to help you with the state funeral,” he explained; “he is much better at such things than I, and you in your sorrow need not concern yourself with such mundane tasks.”

“The mundane tasks mask my unhappiness, at least,” said Faramir, his voice unsteady. “She is in the hall,” he said to the dark-haired Elf; “my servants will see to it you have every facility at your disposal.”

“Thank you, Lord Faramir,” said Galás in a subdued voice, removing his cloak and laying it over his arm. “My lord, do you need me right now? I ought to begin.”

“No, Galás, go ahead,” said Legolas, putting an arm around Faramir’s shoulders. “I’ll stay with Lord Faramir for a while.”

“Very well,” said Galás, and went into the hall. Legolas led Faramir back to his chambers; between them was the comfortable silence of two good friends. After Legolas had shut the door behind him and removed his wet cloak, he turned to see Faramir standing in the middle of the chamber, looking with pain at Éowyn’s red chair.

“She used to sit there,” he said in a broken voice, laying a trembling hand upon the embroidered headpiece. “She nursed all of our children there. And she would read to Fastred with him sitting on her lap, or tell him tales of her own people.” He caught his breath in a sob, and looked over at Legolas, who took him in his arms again.

“I can’t bear to see you so unhappy,” said Legolas. “I wish there were something I could do to ease your grief. To lose a child is terrible; to lose your wife is worse.”

“Oh, the girl is not yet dead,” sighed Faramir into his friend’s damp, fragrant hair. “The nurses do all they can for her, and even Aragorn has seen her, but they all tell me she will not live. She is too weak and too small, and came too soon from her mother’s womb.”

Legolas drew back and looked at Faramir in consternation. “I had been told she died as well,” he said sharply. “Where is the child?”

“In the nursery,” said Faramir, gesturing to another door. “We moved the other three children to Éomer and Lothíriel’s rooms; their two boys love them and watch over them well.” When Legolas moved toward the nursery door, Faramir said, “She will not live, Legolas; Aragorn and the healers have all told me she’s far too weak.”

Legolas turned back to him, stripping off his muddy tunic and kicking off his boots. “What is her name?” he asked briskly, and finding a basin full of water he began to wash his hands.

“I haven’t named her yet,” said Faramir. “I couldn’t bear to. I simply call her Little One; to name her would hurt too much.”

Legolas dried his hands on a towel. “She needs a name,” he said, and opened the door of the nursery.

The baby was tiny, and her skin was an unhealthy grey; she was wrinkled and thin, and very lethargic. But she opened her dark, clouded eyes when Legolas picked her up, crooning gently, and lay flaccid and unmoving in his long white hands. The Elf took her over to Éowyn’s chair in the other room and sat down, still singing softly, and drew the swaddling back from her small frame.

Faramir sat on the couch, watching intently as Legolas sang to his daughter, laying the palm of one hand over the baby’s torso. A tingly feeling crept up Faramir’s spine to his neck, and the hairs on the back of his head seemed to stand out straight. The air in the room quivered and brightened, despite the streaming grey rain through the windows, and then Faramir could smell the faint scent of pine and loam and sweet tarragon.

Something warm brushed by his face, though he couldn’t see it; then Legolas paused, and the baby started to wail, a thin, irritated sound meaning she was hungry. Smiling, the Elf put his little finger into her mouth, and she suckled on it eagerly, tiny hands waving before her. Legolas looked up at Faramir, his eyes shining.

“I am naming her Hísimë,” said Legolas. “You may call her whatever you like, but when she comes to stay with me in Doro Lanthiron, all my people will address her as the Lady Hísimë.”

Faramir rose to his feet and approached Legolas. Legolas stood up and gestured to Faramir to sit in the red chair. When he had seated himself, the Elf gave him the baby, who started to squall again. “You’ll need to get a nanny goat or a ewe,” said Legolas. “She’s very hungry.”

“Hísimë,” murmured Faramir, blinking back his tears. “My little Hísimë.” He looked up at Legolas, laughing and weeping. “My friend,” he said, “I am greatly repaid for your absence! You’ve given back to me part of what I lost. I can never thank you enough for what you have done for Éowyn; I am sure she’d be very happy.”

“I didn’t do it for Éowyn,” said Legolas, his smile fading. “I did it for you.”

 

*********************************************************

 

After the funeral, which was as grand and impressive as any state function could be despite the sorrowful circumstances, Legolas and Galás prepared to take their leave of Faramir. A great company of Elves had come for the ceremony and had returned to Doro Lanthiron, singing mournful hymns of remembrance, and Legolas had to return to take up his rule again, and try to salvage as much of the vineyards as he could. Faramir begged him to stay at least until Éowyn could be interred, but Legolas apologized and said he really had to leave, but with Faramir’s permission he would look upon Éowyn one last time to say farewell. Faramir himself had no desire to look upon his beloved wife like that again; he wanted to remember her as she had been, tall and golden and lovely. So he embraced Legolas, thanking him again, and promising that when Hísimë was old enough he would bring her and the other three children to visit. Legolas took him by the shoulders and squeezed him warmly, then reached up with his slender hand to wipe the fresh tears from his friend’s face.

“Lord Faramir of Emyn Arnen,” he said formally, touching his forehead to Faramir’s, “My heart is heavy, and I grieve for you.” Then he gave Faramir a ceremonial kiss on the cheek and released him to his duties.

Legolas and Galás went into the hall. It was empty save for Éowyn’s bier, still covered with its cloth and flanked by burning candles. Legolas went up to it and drew the cloth down, studying her face. The cheeks were prominent and grey, the eyes sunken and black, the lips slack and colorless. The hair was streaked with white, and the neck reaching down into the overlarge dress was corded with tendons and wrinkled. He stood still for a while, lost in thought; at last Galás said,

“My lord, when you gave the ritual condolence to Lord Faramir, I don’t think you translated it into Westron properly.”

Legolas looked curiously up at him. “How so?” he asked.

“The proper phrase ought to have been, ‘I grieve with you.’ You used the wrong preposition.”

“No,” said Legolas, “I don’t think I did.” And Galás, looking in amazement at his lord, was taken aback to see a look of smug complacency on his face.


End file.
